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Preface

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Howard Phillips Lovecraft (August 20, 1890 – March 15, 1937), a prolific and problematic

writer, is often considered one of the greatest authors of early American horror, science-

fiction, and "weird" fiction. His stories echo such great horror and fantasy authors as Poe,

Dunsany, and Chambers. But Lovecraft also brought to his writing a "cosmic horror," which

sprang out of his fantasies and nightmares.

The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft contains all Lovecraft's solo writings as an adult,

beginning in 1917 with "The Tomb" and ending in 1935 with "The Haunter of the Dark." His

collaborative works and revisions are not included.

Table of Contents

Preface ............................................................................................................................. 2

The Tomb .......................................................................................................................... 5

Dagon ............................................................................................................................. 12

Polaris............................................................................................................................. 16

Beyond the Wall of Sleep ............................................................................................... 19

Memory ........................................................................................................................... 26

Old Bugs ......................................................................................................................... 27

The Transition of Juan Romero ...................................................................................... 32

The White Ship ............................................................................................................... 37

The Doom That Came to Sarnath ................................................................................... 41

The Statement of Randolph Carter ................................................................................. 45

The Terrible Old Man ...................................................................................................... 49

The Tree ......................................................................................................................... 51

The Cats of Ulthar........................................................................................................... 54

The Temple ..................................................................................................................... 56

Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family .............................................. 64

The Street ....................................................................................................................... 70

Celephaïs ....................................................................................................................... 74

From Beyond .................................................................................................................. 78

Nyarlathotep ................................................................................................................... 83

The Picture in the House ................................................................................................ 85

Ex Oblivione ................................................................................................................... 90

The Nameless City ......................................................................................................... 92

The Quest of Iranon ...................................................................................................... 100

The Moon-Bog .............................................................................................................. 104

The Outsider ................................................................................................................. 109

The Other Gods ............................................................................................................ 113

The Music of Erich Zann ............................................................................................... 116

Herbert West — Reanimator ........................................................................................ 121

Hypnos ......................................................................................................................... 139

What the Moon Brings .................................................................................................. 144

Azathoth ....................................................................................................................... 146

The Hound .................................................................................................................... 147

The Lurking Fear .......................................................................................................... 152

The Rats in the Walls .................................................................................................... 165

The Unnamable ............................................................................................................ 177

The Festival .................................................................................................................. 182

The Shunned House ..................................................................................................... 188

The Horror at Red Hook ............................................................................................... 204

He ................................................................................................................................. 217

In the Vault .................................................................................................................... 224

The Descendant ........................................................................................................... 229

Cool Air ......................................................................................................................... 232

The Call of Cthulhu ....................................................................................................... 238

Pickman's Model ........................................................................................................... 256

The Silver Key .............................................................................................................. 264

The Strange High House in the Mist ............................................................................. 272

The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath ......................................................................... 278

The Case of Charles Dexter Ward ................................................................................ 338

The Colour Out of Space .............................................................................................. 414

The Very Old Folk ......................................................................................................... 431

The Thing in the Moonlight ........................................................................................... 435

The History of the Necronomicon ................................................................................. 437

Ibid ................................................................................................................................ 439

The Dunwich Horror ..................................................................................................... 442

The Whisperer in Darkness .......................................................................................... 469

At the Mountains of Madness ....................................................................................... 510

The Shadow Over Innsmouth ....................................................................................... 572

The Dreams in the Witch House ................................................................................... 612

The Thing on the Doorstep ........................................................................................... 634

The Evil Clergyman ...................................................................................................... 651

The Book ...................................................................................................................... 654

The Shadow Out of Time .............................................................................................. 656

The Haunter of the Dark ............................................................................................... 694

The Tomb

(1917)

In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the

demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity

of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental

vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only

by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader

intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things

appear as they do only by virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through

which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns

as madness the flashes of super-sight which penetrate the common veil of obvious

empiricism.

My name is Jervas Dudley, and from earliest childhood I have been a dreamer and a

visionary. Wealthy beyond the necessity of a commercial life, and temperamentally unfitted for

the formal studies and social recreations of my acquaintances, I have dwelt ever in realms

apart from the visible world; spending my youth and adolescence in ancient and little-known

books, and in roaming the fields and groves of the region near my ancestral home. I do not

think that what I read in these books or saw in these fields and groves was exactly what other

boys read and saw there; but of this I must say little, since detailed speech would but confirm

those cruel slanders upon my intellect which I sometimes overhear from the whispers of the

stealthy attendants around me. It is sufficient for me to relate events without analysing

causes.

I have said that I dwelt apart from the visible world, but I have not said that I dwelt alone. This

no human creature may do; for lacking the fellowship of the living, he inevitably draws upon

the companionship of things that are not, or are no longer, living. Close by my home there lies

a singular wooded hollow, in whose twilight deeps I spent most of my time; reading, thinking,

and dreaming. Down its moss-covered slopes my first steps of infancy were taken, and

around its grotesquely gnarled oak trees my first fancies of boyhood were woven. Well did I

come to know the presiding dryads of those trees, and often have I watched their wild dances

in the struggling beams of a waning moon—but of these things I must not now speak. I will tell

only of the lone tomb in the darkest of the hillside thickets; the deserted tomb of the Hydes, an

old and exalted family whose last direct descendant had been laid within its black recesses

many decades before my birth.

The vault to which I refer is of ancient granite, weathered and discoloured by the mists and

dampness of generations. Excavated back into the hillside, the structure is visible only at the

entrance. The door, a ponderous and forbidding slab of stone, hangs upon rusted iron hinges,

and is fastened ajar in a queerly sinister way by means of heavy iron chains and padlocks,

according to a gruesome fashion of half a century ago. The abode of the race whose scions

are here inurned had once crowned the declivity which holds the tomb, but had long since

fallen victim to the flames which sprang up from a disastrous stroke of lightning. Of the

midnight storm which destroyed this gloomy mansion, the older inhabitants of the region

sometimes speak in hushed and uneasy voices; alluding to what they call ―divine wrath‖ in a

manner that in later years vaguely increased the always strong fascination which I felt for the

forest-darkened sepulchre. One man only had perished in the fire. When the last of the Hydes

was buried in this place of shade and stillness, the sad urnful of ashes had come from a

distant land; to which the family had repaired when the mansion burned down. No one

remains to lay flowers before the granite portal, and few care to brave the depressing

shadows which seem to linger strangely about the water-worn stones.

I shall never forget the afternoon when first I stumbled upon the half-hidden house of death. It

was in mid-summer, when the alchemy of Nature transmutes the sylvan landscape to one

vivid and almost homogeneous mass of green; when the senses are well-nigh intoxicated with

the surging seas of moist verdure and the subtly indefinable odours of the soil and the

vegetation. In such surroundings the mind loses its perspective; time and space become

trivial and unreal, and echoes of a forgotten prehistoric past beat insistently upon the

enthralled consciousness. All day I had been wandering through the mystic groves of the

hollow; thinking thoughts I need not discuss, and conversing with things I need not name. In

years a child of ten, I had seen and heard many wonders unknown to the throng; and was

oddly aged in certain respects. When, upon forcing my way between two savage clumps of

briers, I suddenly encountered the entrance of the vault, I had no knowledge of what I had

discovered. The dark blocks of granite, the door so curiously ajar, and the funereal carvings

above the arch, aroused in me no associations of mournful or terrible character. Of graves

and tombs I knew and imagined much, but had on account of my peculiar temperament been

kept from all personal contact with churchyards and cemeteries. The strange stone house on

the woodland slope was to me only a source of interest and speculation; and its cold, damp

interior, into which I vainly peered through the aperture so tantalisingly left, contained for me

no hint of death or decay. But in that instant of curiosity was born the madly unreasoning

desire which has brought me to this hell of confinement. Spurred on by a voice which must

have come from the hideous soul of the forest, I resolved to enter the beckoning gloom in

spite of the ponderous chains which barred my passage. In the waning light of day I

alternately rattled the rusty impediments with a view to throwing wide the stone door, and

essayed to squeeze my slight form through the space already provided; but neither plan met

with success. At first curious, I was now frantic; and when in the thickening twilight I returned

to my home, I had sworn to the hundred gods of the grove that at any cost I would some day

force an entrance to the black, chilly depths that seemed calling out to me. The physician with

the iron-grey beard who comes each day to my room once told a visitor that this decision

marked the beginning of a pitiful monomania; but I will leave final judgment to my readers

when they shall have learnt all.

The months following my discovery were spent in futile attempts to force the complicated

padlock of the slightly open vault, and in carefully guarded inquiries regarding the nature and

history of the structure. With the traditionally receptive ears of the small boy, I learned much;

though an habitual secretiveness caused me to tell no one of my information or my resolve. It

is perhaps worth mentioning that I was not at all surprised or terrified on learning of the nature

of the vault. My rather original ideas regarding life and death had caused me to associate the

cold clay with the breathing body in a vague fashion; and I felt that the great and sinister

family of the burned-down mansion was in some way represented within the stone space I

sought to explore. Mumbled tales of the weird rites and godless revels of bygone years in the

ancient hall gave to me a new and potent interest in the tomb, before whose door I would sit

for hours at a time each day. Once I thrust a candle within the nearly closed entrance, but

could see nothing save a flight of damp stone steps leading downward. The odour of the

place repelled yet bewitched me. I felt I had known it before, in a past remote beyond all

recollection; beyond even my tenancy of the body I now possess.

The year after I first beheld the tomb, I stumbled upon a worm-eaten translation of Plutarch‘s

Lives in the book-filled attic of my home. Reading the life of Theseus, I was much impressed

by that passage telling of the great stone beneath which the boyish hero was to find his

tokens of destiny whenever he should become old enough to lift its enormous weight. This

legend had the effect of dispelling my keenest impatience to enter the vault, for it made me

feel that the time was not yet ripe. Later, I told myself, I should grow to a strength and

ingenuity which might enable me to unfasten the heavily chained door with ease; but until

then I would do better by conforming to what seemed the will of Fate.

Accordingly my watches by the dank portal became less persistent, and much of my time was

spent in other though equally strange pursuits. I would sometimes rise very quietly in the

night, stealing out to walk in those churchyards and places of burial from which I had been

kept by my parents. What I did there I may not say, for I am not now sure of the reality of

certain things; but I know that on the day after such a nocturnal ramble I would often astonish

those about me with my knowledge of topics almost forgotten for many generations. It was

after a night like this that I shocked the community with a queer conceit about the burial of the

rich and celebrated Squire Brewster, a maker of local history who was interred in 1711, and

whose slate headstone, bearing a graven skull and crossbones, was slowly crumbling to

powder. In a moment of childish imagination I vowed not only that the undertaker, Goodman

Simpson, had stolen the silver-buckled shoes, silken hose, and satin small-clothes of the

deceased before burial; but that the Squire himself, not fully inanimate, had turned twice in his

mound-covered coffin on the day after interment.

But the idea of entering the tomb never left my thoughts; being indeed stimulated by the

unexpected genealogical discovery that my own maternal ancestry possessed at least a slight

link with the supposedly extinct family of the Hydes. Last of my paternal race, I was likewise

the last of this older and more mysterious line. I began to feel that the tomb was mine, and to

look forward with hot eagerness to the time when I might pass within that stone door and

down those slimy stone steps in the dark. I now formed the habit of listening very intently at

the slightly open portal, choosing my favourite hours of midnight stillness for the odd vigil. By

the time I came of age, I had made a small clearing in the thicket before the mould-stained

facade of the hillside, allowing the surrounding vegetation to encircle and overhang the space

like the walls and roof of a sylvan bower. This bower was my temple, the fastened door my

shrine, and here I would lie outstretched on the mossy ground, thinking strange thoughts and

dreaming strange dreams.

The night of the first revelation was a sultry one. I must have fallen asleep from fatigue, for it

was with a distinct sense of awakening that I heard the voices. Of those tones and accents I

hesitate to speak; of their quality I will not speak; but I may say that they presented certain

uncanny differences in vocabulary, pronunciation, and mode of utterance. Every shade of

New England dialect, from the uncouth syllables of the Puritan colonists to the precise rhetoric

of fifty years ago, seemed represented in that shadowy colloquy, though it was only later that I

noticed the fact. At the time, indeed, my attention was distracted from this matter by another

phenomenon; a phenomenon so fleeting that I could not take oath upon its reality. I barely

fancied that as I awoke, a light had been hurriedly extinguished within the sunken sepulchre. I

do not think I was either astounded or panic-stricken, but I know that I was greatly and

permanently changed that night. Upon returning home I went with much directness to a rotting

chest in the attic, wherein I found the key which next day unlocked with ease the barrier I had

so long stormed in vain.

It was in the soft glow of late afternoon that I first entered the vault on the abandoned slope. A

spell was upon me, and my heart leaped with an exultation I can but ill describe. As I closed

the door behind me and descended the dripping steps by the light of my lone candle, I

seemed to know the way; and though the candle sputtered with the stifling reek of the place, I

felt singularly at home in the musty, charnel-house air. Looking about me, I beheld many

marble slabs bearing coffins, or the remains of coffins. Some of these were sealed and intact,

but others had nearly vanished, leaving the silver handles and plates isolated amidst certain

curious heaps of whitish dust. Upon one plate I read the name of Sir Geoffrey Hyde, who had

come from Sussex in 1640 and died here a few years later. In a conspicuous alcove was one

fairly well-preserved and untenanted casket, adorned with a single name which brought to me

both a smile and a shudder. An odd impulse caused me to climb upon the broad slab,

extinguish my candle, and lie down within the vacant box.

In the grey light of dawn I staggered from the vault and locked the chain of the door behind

me. I was no longer a young man, though but twenty-one winters had chilled my bodily frame.

Early-rising villagers who observed my homeward progress looked at me strangely, and

marvelled at the signs of ribald revelry which they saw in one whose life was known to be

sober and solitary. I did not appear before my parents till after a long and refreshing sleep.

Henceforward I haunted the tomb each night; seeing, hearing, and doing things I must never

reveal. My speech, always susceptible to environmental influences, was the first thing to

succumb to the change; and my suddenly acquired archaism of diction was soon remarked

upon. Later a queer boldness and recklessness came into my demeanour, till I unconsciously

grew to possess the bearing of a man of the world despite my lifelong seclusion. My formerly

silent tongue waxed voluble with the easy grace of a Chesterfield or the godless cynicism of a

Rochester. I displayed a peculiar erudition utterly unlike the fantastic, monkish lore over which

I had pored in youth; and covered the flyleaves of my books with facile impromptu epigrams

which brought up suggestions of Gay, Prior, and the sprightliest of the Augustan wits and

rimesters. One morning at breakfast I came close to disaster by declaiming in palpably

liquorish accents an effusion of eighteenth-century Bacchanalian mirth; a bit of Georgian

playfulness never recorded in a book, which ran something like this:

Come hither, my lads, with your tankards of ale,

And drink to the present before it shall fail;

Pile each on your platter a mountain of beef,

For ‘tis eating and drinking that bring us relief:

So fill up your glass,

For life will soon pass;

When you‘re dead ye‘ll ne‘er drink to your king or your lass!

Anacreon had a red nose, so they say;

But what‘s a red nose if ye‘re happy and gay?

Gad split me! I‘d rather be red whilst I‘m here,

Than white as a lily—and dead half a year!

So Betty, my miss,

Come give me a kiss;

In hell there‘s no innkeeper‘s daughter like this!

Young Harry, propp‘d up just as straight as he‘s able,

Will soon lose his wig and slip under the table;

But fill up your goblets and pass ‘em around—

Better under the table than under the ground!

So revel and chaff

As ye thirstily quaff:

Under six feet of dirt ‘tis less easy to laugh!

The fiend strike me blue! I‘m scarce able to walk,

And damn me if I can stand upright or talk!

Here, landlord, bid Betty to summon a chair;

I‘ll try home for a while, for my wife is not there!

So lend me a hand;

I‘m not able to stand,

But I‘m gay whilst I linger on top of the land!

About this time I conceived my present fear of fire and thunderstorms. Previously indifferent to

such things, I had now an unspeakable horror of them; and would retire to the innermost

recesses of the house whenever the heavens threatened an electrical display. A favourite

haunt of mine during the day was the ruined cellar of the mansion that had burned down, and

in fancy I would picture the structure as it had been in its prime. On one occasion I startled a

villager by leading him confidently to a shallow sub-cellar, of whose existence I seemed to

know in spite of the fact that it had been unseen and forgotten for many generations.

At last came that which I had long feared. My parents, alarmed at the altered manner and

appearance of their only son, commenced to exert over my movements a kindly espionage

which threatened to result in disaster. I had told no one of my visits to the tomb, having

guarded my secret purpose with religious zeal since childhood; but now I was forced to

exercise care in threading the mazes of the wooded hollow, that I might throw off a possible

pursuer. My key to the vault I kept suspended from a cord about my neck, its presence known

only to me. I never carried out of the sepulchre any of the things I came upon whilst within its

walls.

One morning as I emerged from the damp tomb and fastened the chain of the portal with

none too steady hand, I beheld in an adjacent thicket the dreaded face of a watcher. Surely

the end was near; for my bower was discovered, and the objective of my nocturnal journeys

revealed. The man did not accost me, so I hastened home in an effort to overhear what he

might report to my careworn father. Were my sojourns beyond the chained door about to be

proclaimed to the world? Imagine my delighted astonishment on hearing the spy inform my

parent in a cautious whisper that I had spent the night in the bower outside the tomb; my

sleep-filmed eyes fixed upon the crevice where the padlocked portal stood ajar! By what

miracle had the watcher been thus deluded? I was now convinced that a supernatural agency

protected me. Made bold by this heaven-sent circumstance, I began to resume perfect

openness in going to the vault; confident that no one could witness my entrance. For a week I

tasted to the full the joys of that charnel conviviality which I must not describe, when the thing

happened, and I was borne away to this accursed abode of sorrow and monotony.

I should not have ventured out that night; for the taint of thunder was in the clouds, and a

hellish phosphorescence rose from the rank swamp at the bottom of the hollow. The call of

the dead, too, was different. Instead of the hillside tomb, it was the charred cellar on the crest

of the slope whose presiding daemon beckoned to me with unseen fingers. As I emerged

from an intervening grove upon the plain before the ruin, I beheld in the misty moonlight a

thing I had always vaguely expected. The mansion, gone for a century, once more reared its

stately height to the raptured vision; every window ablaze with the splendour of many

candles. Up the long drive rolled the coaches of the Boston gentry, whilst on foot came a

numerous assemblage of powdered exquisites from the neighbouring mansions. With this

throng I mingled, though I knew I belonged with the hosts rather than with the guests. Inside

the hall were music, laughter, and wine on every hand. Several faces I recognised; though I

should have known them better had they been shrivelled or eaten away by death and

decomposition. Amidst a wild and reckless throng I was the wildest and most abandoned. Gay

blasphemy poured in torrents from my lips, and in my shocking sallies I heeded no law of

God, Man, or Nature. Suddenly a peal of thunder, resonant even above the din of the swinish

revelry, clave the very roof and laid a hush of fear upon the boisterous company. Red tongues

of flame and searing gusts of heat engulfed the house; and the roysterers, struck with terror at

the descent of a calamity which seemed to transcend the bounds of unguided Nature, fled

shrieking into the night. I alone remained, riveted to my seat by a grovelling fear which I had

never felt before. And then a second horror took possession of my soul. Burnt alive to ashes,

my body dispersed by the four winds, I might never lie in the tomb of the Hydes! Was not my

coffin prepared for me? Had I not a right to rest till eternity amongst the descendants of Sir

Geoffrey Hyde? Aye! I would claim my heritage of death, even though my soul go seeking

through the ages for another corporeal tenement to represent it on that vacant slab in the

alcove of the vault. Jervas Hyde should never share the sad fate of Palinurus!

As the phantom of the burning house faded, I found myself screaming and struggling madly in

the arms of two men, one of whom was the spy who had followed me to the tomb. Rain was

pouring down in torrents, and upon the southern horizon were flashes of the lightning that had

so lately passed over our heads. My father, his face lined with sorrow, stood by as I shouted

my demands to be laid within the tomb; frequently admonishing my captors to treat me as

gently as they could. A blackened circle on the floor of the ruined cellar told of a violent stroke

from the heavens; and from this spot a group of curious villagers with lanterns were prying a

small box of antique workmanship which the thunderbolt had brought to light. Ceasing my

futile and now objectless writhing, I watched the spectators as they viewed the treasure-trove,

and was permitted to share in their discoveries. The box, whose fastenings were broken by

the stroke which had unearthed it, contained many papers and objects of value; but I had

eyes for one thing alone. It was the porcelain miniature of a young man in a smartly curled

bag-wig, and bore the initials ―J. H.‖ The face was such that as I gazed, I might well have

been studying my mirror.

On the following day I was brought to this room with the barred windows, but I have been kept

informed of certain things through an aged and simple-minded servitor, for whom I bore a

fondness in infancy, and who like me loves the churchyard. What I have dared relate of my

experiences within the vault has brought me only pitying smiles. My father, who visits me

frequently, declares that at no time did I pass the chained portal, and swears that the rusted

padlock had not been touched for fifty years when he examined it. He even says that all the

village knew of my journeys to the tomb, and that I was often watched as I slept in the bower

outside the grim facade, my half-open eyes fixed on the crevice that leads to the interior.

Against these assertions I have no tangible proof to offer, since my key to the padlock was

Dagon

(1917)

I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more.

Penniless, and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone makes life endurable, I can

bear the torture no longer; and shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street

below. Do not think from my slavery to morphine that I am a weakling or a degenerate. When

you have read these hastily scrawled pages you may guess, though never fully realise, why it

is that I must have forgetfulness or death.

It was in one of the most open and least frequented parts of the broad Pacific that the packet

of which I was supercargo fell a victim to the German sea-raider. The great war was then at its

very beginning, and the ocean forces of the Hun had not completely sunk to their later

degradation; so that our vessel was made a legitimate prize, whilst we of her crew were

treated with all the fairness and consideration due us as naval prisoners. So liberal, indeed,

was the discipline of our captors, that five days after we were taken I managed to escape

alone in a small boat with water and provisions for a good length of time.

When I finally found myself adrift and free, I had but little idea of my surroundings. Never a

competent navigator, I could only guess vaguely by the sun and stars that I was somewhat

south of the equator. Of the longitude I knew nothing, and no island or coast-line was in sight.

The weather kept fair, and for uncounted days I drifted aimlessly beneath the scorching sun;

waiting either for some passing ship, or to be cast on the shores of some habitable land. But

neither ship nor land appeared, and I began to despair in my solitude upon the heaving

vastnesses of unbroken blue.

The change happened whilst I slept. Its details I shall never know; for my slumber, though

troubled and dream-infested, was continuous. When at last I awaked, it was to discover

myself half sucked into a slimy expanse of hellish black mire which extended about me in

monotonous undulations as far as I could see, and in which my boat lay grounded some

distance away.

Though one might well imagine that my first sensation would be of wonder at so prodigious

and unexpected a transformation of scenery, I was in reality more horrified than astonished;

for there was in the air and in the rotting soil a sinister quality which chilled me to the very

core. The region was putrid with the carcasses of decaying fish, and of other less describable

things which I saw protruding from the nasty mud of the unending plain. Perhaps I should not

hope to convey in mere words the unutterable hideousness that can dwell in absolute silence

and barren immensity. There was nothing within hearing, and nothing in sight save a vast

reach of black slime; yet the very completeness of the stillness and the homogeneity of the

landscape oppressed me with a nauseating fear.

The sun was blazing down from a sky which seemed to me almost black in its cloudless

cruelty; as though reflecting the inky marsh beneath my feet. As I crawled into the stranded

boat I realised that only one theory could explain my position. Through some unprecedented

volcanic upheaval, a portion of the ocean floor must have been thrown to the surface,

exposing regions which for innumerable millions of years had lain hidden under unfathomable

watery depths. So great was the extent of the new land which had risen beneath me, that I

could not detect the faintest noise of the surging ocean, strain my ears as I might. Nor were

there any sea-fowl to prey upon the dead things.

For several hours I sat thinking or brooding in the boat, which lay upon its side and afforded a

slight shade as the sun moved across the heavens. As the day progressed, the ground lost

some of its stickiness, and seemed likely to dry sufficiently for travelling purposes in a short

time. That night I slept but little, and the next day I made for myself a pack containing food

and water, preparatory to an overland journey in search of the vanished sea and possible

rescue.

On the third morning I found the soil dry enough to walk upon with ease. The odour of the fish

was maddening; but I was too much concerned with graver things to mind so slight an evil,

and set out boldly for an unknown goal. All day I forged steadily westward, guided by a far-

away hummock which rose higher than any other elevation on the rolling desert. That night I

encamped, and on the following day still travelled toward the hummock, though that object

seemed scarcely nearer than when I had first espied it. By the fourth evening I attained the

base of the mound, which turned out to be much higher than it had appeared from a distance;

an intervening valley setting it out in sharper relief from the general surface. Too weary to

ascend, I slept in the shadow of the hill.

I know not why my dreams were so wild that night; but ere the waning and fantastically

gibbous moon had risen far above the eastern plain, I was awake in a cold perspiration,

determined to sleep no more. Such visions as I had experienced were too much for me to

endure again. And in the glow of the moon I saw how unwise I had been to travel by day.

Without the glare of the parching sun, my journey would have cost me less energy; indeed, I

now felt quite able to perform the ascent which had deterred me at sunset. Picking up my

pack, I started for the crest of the eminence.

I have said that the unbroken monotony of the rolling plain was a source of vague horror to

me; but I think my horror was greater when I gained the summit of the mound and looked

down the other side into an immeasurable pit or canyon, whose black recesses the moon had

not yet soared high enough to illumine. I felt myself on the edge of the world; peering over the

rim into a fathomless chaos of eternal night. Through my terror ran curious reminiscences of

Paradise Lost, and of Satan‘s hideous climb through the unfashioned realms of darkness.

As the moon climbed higher in the sky, I began to see that the slopes of the valley were not

quite so perpendicular as I had imagined. Ledges and outcroppings of rock afforded fairly

easy foot-holds for a descent, whilst after a drop of a few hundred feet, the declivity became

very gradual. Urged on by an impulse which I cannot definitely analyse, I scrambled with

difficulty down the rocks and stood on the gentler slope beneath, gazing into the Stygian

deeps where no light had yet penetrated.

All at once my attention was captured by a vast and singular object on the opposite slope,

which rose steeply about an hundred yards ahead of me; an object that gleamed whitely in

the newly bestowed rays of the ascending moon. That it was merely a gigantic piece of stone,

I soon assured myself; but I was conscious of a distinct impression that its contour and

position were not altogether the work of Nature. A closer scrutiny filled me with sensations I

cannot express; for despite its enormous magnitude, and its position in an abyss which had

yawned at the bottom of the sea since the world was young, I perceived beyond a doubt that

the strange object was a well-shaped monolith whose massive bulk had known the

workmanship and perhaps the worship of living and thinking creatures.

Dazed and frightened, yet not without a certain thrill of the scientist‘s or archaeologist‘s

delight, I examined my surroundings more closely. The moon, now near the zenith, shone

weirdly and vividly above the towering steeps that hemmed in the chasm, and revealed the

fact that a far-flung body of water flowed at the bottom, winding out of sight in both directions,

and almost lapping my feet as I stood on the slope. Across the chasm, the wavelets washed

the base of the Cyclopean monolith; on whose surface I could now trace both inscriptions and

crude sculptures. The writing was in a system of hieroglyphics unknown to me, and unlike

anything I had ever seen in books; consisting for the most part of conventionalised aquatic

symbols such as fishes, eels, octopi, crustaceans, molluscs, whales, and the like. Several

characters obviously represented marine things which are unknown to the modern world, but

whose decomposing forms I had observed on the ocean-risen plain.

It was the pictorial carving, however, that did most to hold me spellbound. Plainly visible

across the intervening water on account of their enormous size, were an array of bas-reliefs

whose subjects would have excited the envy of a Doré. I think that these things were

supposed to depict men—at least, a certain sort of men; though the creatures were shewn

disporting like fishes in the waters of some marine grotto, or paying homage at some

monolithic shrine which appeared to be under the waves as well. Of their faces and forms I

dare not speak in detail; for the mere remembrance makes me grow faint. Grotesque beyond

the imagination of a Poe or a Bulwer, they were damnably human in general outline despite

webbed hands and feet, shockingly wide and flabby lips, glassy, bulging eyes, and other

features less pleasant to recall. Curiously enough, they seemed to have been chiselled badly

out of proportion with their scenic background; for one of the creatures was shewn in the act

of killing a whale represented as but little larger than himself. I remarked, as I say, their

grotesqueness and strange size; but in a moment decided that they were merely the

imaginary gods of some primitive fishing or seafaring tribe; some tribe whose last descendant

had perished eras before the first ancestor of the Piltdown or Neanderthal Man was born.

Awestruck at this unexpected glimpse into a past beyond the conception of the most daring

anthropologist, I stood musing whilst the moon cast queer reflections on the silent channel

before me.

Then suddenly I saw it. With only a slight churning to mark its rise to the surface, the thing slid

into view above the dark waters. Vast, Polyphemus-like, and loathsome, it darted like a

stupendous monster of nightmares to the monolith, about which it flung its gigantic scaly

arms, the while it bowed its hideous head and gave vent to certain measured sounds. I think I

went mad then.

Of my frantic ascent of the slope and cliff, and of my delirious journey back to the stranded

boat, I remember little. I believe I sang a great deal, and laughed oddly when I was unable to

sing. I have indistinct recollections of a great storm some time after I reached the boat; at any

rate, I know that I heard peals of thunder and other tones which Nature utters only in her

wildest moods.

When I came out of the shadows I was in a San Francisco hospital; brought thither by the

captain of the American ship which had picked up my boat in mid-ocean. In my delirium I had

said much, but found that my words had been given scant attention. Of any land upheaval in

the Pacific, my rescuers knew nothing; nor did I deem it necessary to insist upon a thing

which I knew they could not believe. Once I sought out a celebrated ethnologist, and amused

him with peculiar questions regarding the ancient Philistine legend of Dagon, the Fish-God;

but soon perceiving that he was hopelessly conventional, I did not press my inquiries.

It is at night, especially when the moon is gibbous and waning, that I see the thing. I tried

morphine; but the drug has given only transient surcease, and has drawn me into its clutches

as a hopeless slave. So now I am to end it all, having written a full account for the information

or the contemptuous amusement of my fellow-men. Often I ask myself if it could not all have

Polaris

(1918)

Into the north window of my chamber glows the Pole Star with uncanny light. All through the

long hellish hours of blackness it shines there. And in the autumn of the year, when the winds

from the north curse and whine, and the red-leaved trees of the swamp mutter things to one

another in the small hours of the morning under the horned waning moon, I sit by the

casement and watch that star. Down from the heights reels the glittering Cassiopeia as the

hours wear on, while Charles‘ Wain lumbers up from behind the vapour-soaked swamp trees

that sway in the night-wind. Just before dawn Arcturus winks ruddily from above the cemetery

on the low hillock, and Coma Berenices shimmers weirdly afar off in the mysterious east; but

still the Pole Star leers down from the same place in the black vault, winking hideously like an

insane watching eye which strives to convey some strange message, yet recalls nothing save

that it once had a message to convey. Sometimes, when it is cloudy, I can sleep.

Well do I remember the night of the great Aurora, when over the swamp played the shocking

coruscations of the daemon-light. After the beams came clouds, and then I slept.

And it was under a horned waning moon that I saw the city for the first time. Still and

somnolent did it lie, on a strange plateau in a hollow betwixt strange peaks. Of ghastly marble

were its walls and its towers, its columns, domes, and pavements. In the marble streets were

marble pillars, the upper parts of which were carven into the images of grave bearded men.

The air was warm and stirred not. And overhead, scarce ten degrees from the zenith, glowed

that watching Pole Star. Long did I gaze on the city, but the day came not. When the red

Aldebaran, which blinked low in the sky but never set, had crawled a quarter of the way

around the horizon, I saw light and motion in the houses and the streets. Forms strangely

robed, but at once noble and familiar, walked abroad, and under the horned waning moon

men talked wisdom in a tongue which I understood, though it was unlike any language I had

ever known. And when the red Aldebaran had crawled more than half way around the horizon,

there were again darkness and silence.

When I awaked, I was not as I had been. Upon my memory was graven the vision of the city,

and within my soul had arisen another and vaguer recollection, of whose nature I was not

then certain. Thereafter, on the cloudy nights when I could sleep, I saw the city often;

sometimes under that horned waning moon, and sometimes under the hot yellow rays of a

sun which did not set, but which wheeled low around the horizon. And on the clear nights the

Pole Star leered as never before.

Gradually I came to wonder what might be my place in that city on the strange plateau betwixt

strange peaks. At first content to view the scene as an all-observant uncorporeal presence, I

now desired to define my relation to it, and to speak my mind amongst the grave men who

conversed each day in the public squares. I said to myself, ―This is no dream, for by what

means can I prove the greater reality of that other life in the house of stone and brick south of

the sinister swamp and the cemetery on the low hillock, where the Pole Star peers into my

north window each night?‖

One night as I listened to the discourse in the large square containing many statues, I felt a

change; and perceived that I had at last a bodily form. Nor was I a stranger in the streets of

Olathoë, which lies on the plateau of Sarkis, betwixt the peaks Noton and Kadiphonek. It was

my friend Alos who spoke, and his speech was one that pleased my soul, for it was the

speech of a true man and patriot. That night had the news come of Daikos‘ fall, and of the

advance of the Inutos; squat, hellish, yellow fiends who five years ago had appeared out of

the unknown west to ravage the confines of our kingdom, and finally to besiege our towns.

Having taken the fortified places at the foot of the mountains, their way now lay open to the

plateau, unless every citizen could resist with the strength of ten men. For the squat creatures

were mighty in the arts of war, and knew not the scruples of honour which held back our tall,

grey-eyed men of Lomar from ruthless conquest.

Alos, my friend, was commander of all the forces on the plateau, and in him lay the last hope

of our country. On this occasion he spoke of the perils to be faced, and exhorted the men of

Olathoë, bravest of the Lomarians, to sustain the traditions of their ancestors, who when

forced to move southward from Zobna before the advance of the great ice-sheet (even as our

descendants must some day flee from the land of Lomar), valiantly and victoriously swept

aside the hairy, long-armed, cannibal Gnophkehs that stood in their way. To me Alos denied a

warrior‘s part, for I was feeble and given to strange faintings when subjected to stress and

hardships. But my eyes were the keenest in the city, despite the long hours I gave each day to

the study of the Pnakotic manuscripts and the wisdom of the Zobnarian Fathers; so my friend,

desiring not to doom me to inaction, rewarded me with that duty which was second to nothing

in importance. To the watch-tower of Thapnen he sent me, there to serve as the eyes of our

army. Should the Inutos attempt to gain the citadel by the narrow pass behind the peak Noton,

and thereby surprise the garrison, I was to give the signal of fire which would warn the waiting

soldiers and save the town from immediate disaster.

Alone I mounted the tower, for every man of stout body was needed in the passes below. My

brain was sore dazed with excitement and fatigue, for I had not slept in many days; yet was

my purpose firm, for I loved my native land of Lomar, and the marble city of Olathoë that lies

betwixt the peaks of Noton and Kadiphonek.

But as I stood in the tower‘s topmost chamber, I beheld the horned waning moon, red and

sinister, quivering through the vapours that hovered over the distant valley of Banof. And

through an opening in the roof glittered the pale Pole Star, fluttering as if alive, and leering like

a fiend and tempter. Methought its spirit whispered evil counsel, soothing me to traitorous

somnolence with a damnable rhythmical promise which it repeated over and over:

―Slumber, watcher, till the spheres

Six and twenty thousand years

Have revolv‘d, and I return

To the spot where now I burn.

Other stars anon shall rise

To the axis of the skies;

Stars that soothe and stars that bless

With a sweet forgetfulness:

Only when my round is o‘er

Shall the past disturb thy door.‖

Vainly did I struggle with my drowsiness, seeking to connect these strange words with some

lore of the skies which I had learnt from the Pnakotic manuscripts. My head, heavy and

reeling, drooped to my breast, and when next I looked up it was in a dream; with the Pole Star

grinning at me through a window from over the horrible swaying trees of a dream-swamp. And

I am still dreaming.

In my shame and despair I sometimes scream frantically, begging the dream-creatures

around me to waken me ere the Inutos steal up the pass behind the peak Noton and take the

citadel by surprise; but these creatures are daemons, for they laugh at me and tell me I am

not dreaming. They mock me whilst I sleep, and whilst the squat yellow foe may be creeping

silently upon us. I have failed in my duty and betrayed the marble city of Olathoë; I have

proven false to Alos, my friend and commander. But still these shadows of my dream deride

me. They say there is no land of Lomar, save in my nocturnal imaginings; that in those realms

where the Pole Star shines high and red Aldebaran crawls low around the horizon, there has

been naught save ice and snow for thousands of years, and never a man save squat yellow

creatures, blighted by the cold, whom they call ―Esquimaux‖.

And as I writhe in my guilty agony, frantic to save the city whose peril every moment grows,

and vainly striving to shake off this unnatural dream of a house of stone and brick south of a

sinister swamp and a cemetery on a low hillock; the Pole Star, evil and monstrous, leers down

from the black vault, winking hideously like an insane watching eye which strives to convey

some strange message, yet recalls nothing save that it once had a message to convey.

Return to Table of Contents

Beyond the Wall of Sleep

(1919)

―I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.”

—Shakespeare.

I have frequently wondered if the majority of mankind ever pause to reflect upon the

occasionally titanic significance of dreams, and of the obscure world to which they belong.

Whilst the greater number of our nocturnal visions are perhaps no more than faint and

fantastic reflections of our waking experiences—Freud to the contrary with his puerile

symbolism—there are still a certain remainder whose immundane and ethereal character

permits of no ordinary interpretation, and whose vaguely exciting and disquieting effect

suggests possible minute glimpses into a sphere of mental existence no less important than

physical life, yet separated from that life by an all but impassable barrier. From my experience

I cannot doubt but that man, when lost to terrestrial consciousness, is indeed sojourning in

another and uncorporeal life of far different nature from the life we know; and of which only

the slightest and most indistinct memories linger after waking. From those blurred and

fragmentary memories we may infer much, yet prove little. We may guess that in dreams life,

matter, and vitality, as the earth knows such things, are not necessarily constant; and that

time and space do not exist as our waking selves comprehend them. Sometimes I believe

that this less material life is our truer life, and that our vain presence on the terraqueous globe

is itself the secondary or merely virtual phenomenon.

It was from a youthful reverie filled with speculations of this sort that I arose one afternoon in

the winter of 1900–1901, when to the state psychopathic institution in which I served as an

interne was brought the man whose case has ever since haunted me so unceasingly. His

name, as given on the records, was Joe Slater, or Slaader, and his appearance was that of

the typical denizen of the Catskill Mountain region; one of those strange, repellent scions of a

primitive colonial peasant stock whose isolation for nearly three centuries in the hilly

fastnesses of a little-travelled countryside has caused them to sink to a kind of barbaric

degeneracy, rather than advance with their more fortunately placed brethren of the thickly

settled districts. Among these odd folk, who correspond exactly to the decadent element of

―white trash‖ in the South, law and morals are non-existent; and their general mental status is

probably below that of any other section of the native American people.

Joe Slater, who came to the institution in the vigilant custody of four state policemen, and who

was described as a highly dangerous character, certainly presented no evidence of his

perilous disposition when first I beheld him. Though well above the middle stature, and of

somewhat brawny frame, he was given an absurd appearance of harmless stupidity by the

pale, sleepy blueness of his small watery eyes, the scantiness of his neglected and never-

shaven growth of yellow beard, and the listless drooping of his heavy nether lip. His age was

unknown, since among his kind neither family records nor permanent family ties exist; but

from the baldness of his head in front, and from the decayed condition of his teeth, the head

surgeon wrote him down as a man of about forty.

From the medical and court documents we learned all that could be gathered of his case. This

man, a vagabond, hunter, and trapper, had always been strange in the eyes of his primitive

associates. He had habitually slept at night beyond the ordinary time, and upon waking would

often talk of unknown things in a manner so bizarre as to inspire fear even in the hearts of an

unimaginative populace. Not that his form of language was at all unusual, for he never spoke

save in the debased patois of his environment; but the tone and tenor of his utterances were

of such mysterious wildness, that none might listen without apprehension. He himself was

generally as terrified and baffled as his auditors, and within an hour after awakening would

forget all that he had said, or at least all that had caused him to say what he did; relapsing

into a bovine, half-amiable normality like that of the other hill-dwellers.

As Slater grew older, it appeared, his matutinal aberrations had gradually increased in

frequency and violence; till about a month before his arrival at the institution had occurred the

shocking tragedy which caused his arrest by the authorities. One day near noon, after a

profound sleep begun in a whiskey debauch at about five of the previous afternoon, the man

had roused himself most suddenly; with ululations so horrible and unearthly that they brought

several neighbours to his cabin—a filthy sty where he dwelt with a family as indescribable as

himself. Rushing out into the snow, he had flung his arms aloft and commenced a series of

leaps directly upward in the air; the while shouting his determination to reach some ‗big, big

cabin with brightness in the roof and walls and floor, and the loud queer music far away‘. As

two men of moderate size sought to restrain him, he had struggled with maniacal force and

fury, screaming of his desire and need to find and kill a certain ‗thing that shines and shakes

and laughs‘. At length, after temporarily felling one of his detainers with a sudden blow, he

had flung himself upon the other in a daemoniac ecstasy of bloodthirstiness, shrieking

fiendishly that he would ‗jump high in the air and burn his way through anything that stopped

him‘. Family and neighbours had now fled in a panic, and when the more courageous of them

returned, Slater was gone, leaving behind an unrecognisable pulp-like thing that had been a

living man but an hour before. None of the mountaineers had dared to pursue him, and it is

likely that they would have welcomed his death from the cold; but when several mornings

later they heard his screams from a distant ravine, they realised that he had somehow

managed to survive, and that his removal in one way or another would be necessary. Then

had followed an armed searching party, whose purpose (whatever it may have been

originally) became that of a sheriff‘s posse after one of the seldom popular state troopers had

by accident observed, then questioned, and finally joined the seekers.

On the third day Slater was found unconscious in the hollow of a tree, and taken to the

nearest gaol; where alienists from Albany examined him as soon as his senses returned. To

them he told a simple story. He had, he said, gone to sleep one afternoon about sundown

after drinking much liquor. He had awaked to find himself standing bloody-handed in the snow

before his cabin, the mangled corpse of his neighbour Peter Slader at his feet. Horrified, he

had taken to the woods in a vague effort to escape from the scene of what must have been

his crime. Beyond these things he seemed to know nothing, nor could the expert questioning

of his interrogators bring out a single additional fact. That night Slater slept quietly, and the

next morning he wakened with no singular feature save a certain alteration of expression. Dr.

Barnard, who had been watching the patient, thought he noticed in the pale blue eyes a

certain gleam of peculiar quality; and in the flaccid lips an all but imperceptible tightening, as if

of intelligent determination. But when questioned, Slater relapsed into the habitual vacancy of

the mountaineer, and only reiterated what he had said on the preceding day.

On the third morning occurred the first of the man‘s mental attacks. After some show of

uneasiness in sleep, he burst forth into a frenzy so powerful that the combined efforts of four

men were needed to bind him in a strait-jacket. The alienists listened with keen attention to

his words, since their curiosity had been aroused to a high pitch by the suggestive yet mostly

conflicting and incoherent stories of his family and neighbours. Slater raved for upward of

fifteen minutes, babbling in his backwoods dialect of great edifices of light, oceans of space,

strange music, and shadowy mountains and valleys. But most of all did he dwell upon some

mysterious blazing entity that shook and laughed and mocked at him. This vast, vague

personality seemed to have done him a terrible wrong, and to kill it in triumphant revenge was

his paramount desire. In order to reach it, he said, he would soar through abysses of

emptiness, burning every obstacle that stood in his way. Thus ran his discourse, until with the

greatest suddenness he ceased. The fire of madness died from his eyes, and in dull wonder

he looked at his questioners and asked why he was bound. Dr. Barnard unbuckled the

leathern harness and did not restore it till night, when he succeeded in persuading Slater to

don it of his own volition, for his own good. The man had now admitted that he sometimes

talked queerly, though he knew not why.

Within a week two more attacks appeared, but from them the doctors learned little. On the

source of Slater‘s visions they speculated at length, for since he could neither read nor write,

and had apparently never heard a legend or fairy tale, his gorgeous imagery was quite

inexplicable. That it could not come from any known myth or romance was made especially

clear by the fact that the unfortunate lunatic expressed himself only in his own simple manner.

He raved of things he did not understand and could not interpret; things which he claimed to

have experienced, but which he could not have learned through any normal or connected

narration. The alienists soon agreed that abnormal dreams were the foundation of the trouble;

dreams whose vividness could for a time completely dominate the waking mind of this

basically inferior man. With due formality Slater was tried for murder, acquitted on the ground

of insanity, and committed to the institution wherein I held so humble a post.

I have said that I am a constant speculator concerning dream life, and from this you may

judge of the eagerness with which I applied myself to the study of the new patient as soon as

I had fully ascertained the facts of his case. He seemed to sense a certain friendliness in me;

born no doubt of the interest I could not conceal, and the gentle manner in which I questioned

him. Not that he ever recognised me during his attacks, when I hung breathlessly upon his

chaotic but cosmic word-pictures; but he knew me in his quiet hours, when he would sit by his

barred window weaving baskets of straw and willow, and perhaps pining for the mountain

freedom he could never enjoy again. His family never called to see him; probably it had found

another temporary head, after the manner of decadent mountain folk.

By degrees I commenced to feel an overwhelming wonder at the mad and fantastic

conceptions of Joe Slater. The man himself was pitiably inferior in mentality and language

alike; but his glowing, titanic visions, though described in a barbarous and disjointed jargon,

were assuredly things which only a superior or even exceptional brain could conceive. How, I

often asked myself, could the stolid imagination of a Catskill degenerate conjure up sights

whose very possession argued a lurking spark of genius? How could any backwoods dullard

have gained so much as an idea of those glittering realms of supernal radiance and space

about which Slater ranted in his furious delirium? More and more I inclined to the belief that in

the pitiful personality who cringed before me lay the disordered nucleus of something beyond

my comprehension; something infinitely beyond the comprehension of my more experienced

but less imaginative medical and scientific colleagues.

And yet I could extract nothing definite from the man. The sum of all my investigation was,

that in a kind of semi-uncorporeal dream life Slater wandered or floated through resplendent

and prodigious valleys, meadows, gardens, cities, and palaces of light; in a region unbounded

and unknown to man. That there he was no peasant or degenerate, but a creature of

importance and vivid life; moving proudly and dominantly, and checked only by a certain

deadly enemy, who seemed to be a being of visible yet ethereal structure, and who did not

appear to be of human shape, since Slater never referred to it as a man, or as aught save a

thing. This thing had done Slater some hideous but unnamed wrong, which the maniac (if

maniac he were) yearned to avenge. From the manner in which Slater alluded to their

dealings, I judged that he and the luminous thing had met on equal terms; that in his dream

existence the man was himself a luminous thing of the same race as his enemy. This

impression was sustained by his frequent references to flying through space and burning all

that impeded his progress. Yet these conceptions were formulated in rustic words wholly

inadequate to convey them, a circumstance which drove me to the conclusion that if a true

dream-world indeed existed, oral language was not its medium for the transmission of

thought. Could it be that the dream-soul inhabiting this inferior body was desperately

struggling to speak things which the simple and halting tongue of dulness could not utter?

Could it be that I was face to face with intellectual emanations which would explain the

mystery if I could but learn to discover and read them? I did not tell the older physicians of

these things, for middle age is sceptical, cynical, and disinclined to accept new ideas.

Besides, the head of the institution had but lately warned me in his paternal way that I was

overworking; that my mind needed a rest.

It had long been my belief that human thought consists basically of atomic or molecular

motion, convertible into ether waves of radiant energy like heat, light, and electricity. This

belief had early led me to contemplate the possibility of telepathy or mental communication by

means of suitable apparatus, and I had in my college days prepared a set of transmitting and

receiving instruments somewhat similar to the cumbrous devices employed in wireless

telegraphy at that crude, pre-radio period. These I had tested with a fellow-student; but

achieving no result, had soon packed them away with other scientific odds and ends for

possible future use. Now, in my intense desire to probe into the dream life of Joe Slater, I

sought these instruments again; and spent several days in repairing them for action. When

they were complete once more I missed no opportunity for their trial. At each outburst of

Slater‘s violence, I would fit the transmitter to his forehead and the receiver to my own;

constantly making delicate adjustments for various hypothetical wave-lengths of intellectual

energy. I had but little notion of how the thought-impressions would, if successfully conveyed,

arouse an intelligent response in my brain; but I felt certain that I could detect and interpret

them. Accordingly I continued my experiments, though informing no one of their nature.

—

It was on the twenty-first of February, 1901, that the thing finally occurred. As I look back

across the years I realise how unreal it seems; and sometimes half wonder if old Dr. Fenton

was not right when he charged it all to my excited imagination. I recall that he listened with

great kindness and patience when I told him, but afterward gave me a nerve-powder and

arranged for the half-year‘s vacation on which I departed the next week. That fateful night I

was wildly agitated and perturbed, for despite the excellent care he had received, Joe Slater

was unmistakably dying. Perhaps it was his mountain freedom that he missed, or perhaps the

turmoil in his brain had grown too acute for his rather sluggish physique; but at all events the

flame of vitality flickered low in the decadent body. He was drowsy near the end, and as

darkness fell he dropped off into a troubled sleep. I did not strap on the strait-jacket as was

customary when he slept, since I saw that he was too feeble to be dangerous, even if he

woke in mental disorder once more before passing away. But I did place upon his head and

mine the two ends of my cosmic ―radio‖; hoping against hope for a first and last message from

the dream-world in the brief time remaining. In the cell with us was one nurse, a mediocre

fellow who did not understand the purpose of the apparatus, or think to inquire into my

course. As the hours wore on I saw his head droop awkwardly in sleep, but I did not disturb

him. I myself, lulled by the rhythmical breathing of the healthy and the dying man, must have

nodded a little later.

The sound of weird lyric melody was what aroused me. Chords, vibrations, and harmonic

ecstasies echoed passionately on every hand; while on my ravished sight burst the

stupendous spectacle of ultimate beauty. Walls, columns, and architraves of living fire blazed

effulgently around the spot where I seemed to float in air; extending upward to an infinitely

high vaulted dome of indescribable splendour. Blending with this display of palatial

magnificence, or rather, supplanting it at times in kaleidoscopic rotation, were glimpses of

wide plains and graceful valleys, high mountains and inviting grottoes; covered with every

lovely attribute of scenery which my delighted eye could conceive of, yet formed wholly of

some glowing, ethereal, plastic entity, which in consistency partook as much of spirit as of

matter. As I gazed, I perceived that my own brain held the key to these enchanting

metamorphoses; for each vista which appeared to me, was the one my changing mind most

wished to behold. Amidst this elysian realm I dwelt not as a stranger, for each sight and sound

was familiar to me; just as it had been for uncounted aeons of eternity before, and would be

for like eternities to come.

Then the resplendent aura of my brother of light drew near and held colloquy with me, soul to

soul, with silent and perfect interchange of thought. The hour was one of approaching

triumph, for was not my fellow-being escaping at last from a degrading periodic bondage;

escaping forever, and preparing to follow the accursed oppressor even unto the uttermost

fields of ether, that upon it might be wrought a flaming cosmic vengeance which would shake

the spheres? We floated thus for a little time, when I perceived a slight blurring and fading of

the objects around us, as though some force were recalling me to earth—where I least

wished to go. The form near me seemed to feel a change also, for it gradually brought its

discourse toward a conclusion, and itself prepared to quit the scene; fading from my sight at a

rate somewhat less rapid than that of the other objects. A few more thoughts were

exchanged, and I knew that the luminous one and I were being recalled to bondage, though

for my brother of light it would be the last time. The sorry planet-shell being well-nigh spent, in

less than an hour my fellow would be free to pursue the oppressor along the Milky Way and

past the hither stars to the very confines of infinity.

A well-defined shock separates my final impression of the fading scene of light from my

sudden and somewhat shamefaced awakening and straightening up in my chair as I saw the

dying figure on the couch move hesitantly. Joe Slater was indeed awaking, though probably

for the last time. As I looked more closely, I saw that in the sallow cheeks shone spots of

colour which had never before been present. The lips, too, seemed unusual; being tightly

compressed, as if by the force of a stronger character than had been Slater‘s. The whole face

finally began to grow tense, and the head turned restlessly with closed eyes. I did not arouse

the sleeping nurse, but readjusted the slightly disarranged head-bands of my telepathic

―radio‖, intent to catch any parting message the dreamer might have to deliver. All at once the

head turned sharply in my direction and the eyes fell open, causing me to stare in blank

amazement at what I beheld. The man who had been Joe Slater, the Catskill decadent, was

now gazing at me with a pair of luminous, expanded eyes whose blue seemed subtly to have

deepened. Neither mania nor degeneracy was visible in that gaze, and I felt beyond a doubt

that I was viewing a face behind which lay an active mind of high order.

At this juncture my brain became aware of a steady external influence operating upon it. I

closed my eyes to concentrate my thoughts more profoundly, and was rewarded by the

positive knowledge that my long-sought mental message had come at last. Each transmitted

idea formed rapidly in my mind, and though no actual language was employed, my habitual

association of conception and expression was so great that I seemed to be receiving the

message in ordinary English.

―Joe Slater is dead,” came the soul-petrifying voice or agency from beyond the wall of sleep.

My opened eyes sought the couch of pain in curious horror, but the blue eyes were still calmly

gazing, and the countenance was still intelligently animated. ―He is better dead, for he was

unfit to bear the active intellect of cosmic entity. His gross body could not undergo the needed

adjustments between ethereal life and planet life. He was too much of an animal, too little a

man; yet it is through his deficiency that you have come to discover me, for the cosmic and

planet souls rightly should never meet. He has been my torment and diurnal prison for forty-

two of your terrestrial years. I am an entity like that which you yourself become in the freedom

of dreamless sleep. I am your brother of light, and have floated with you in the effulgent

valleys. It is not permitted me to tell your waking earth-self of your real self, but we are all

roamers of vast spaces and travellers in many ages. Next year I may be dwelling in the dark

Egypt which you call ancient, or in the cruel empire of Tsan-Chan which is to come three

thousand years hence. You and I have drifted to the worlds that reel about the red Arcturus,

and dwelt in the bodies of the insect-philosophers that crawl proudly over the fourth moon of

Jupiter. How little does the earth-self know of life and its extent! How little, indeed, ought it to

know for its own tranquillity! Of the oppressor I cannot speak. You on earth have unwittingly

felt its distant presence—you who without knowing idly gave to its blinking beacon the name

of Algol, the Daemon-Star. It is to meet and conquer the oppressor that I have vainly striven

for aeons, held back by bodily encumbrances. Tonight I go as a Nemesis bearing just and

blazingly cataclysmic vengeance. Watch me in the sky close by the Daemon-Star. I cannot

speak longer, for the body of Joe Slater grows cold and rigid, and the coarse brains are

ceasing to vibrate as I wish. You have been my friend in the cosmos; you have been my only

friend on this planet—the only soul to sense and seek for me within the repellent form which

lies on this couch. We shall meet again—perhaps in the shining mists of Orion‘s Sword,

perhaps on a bleak plateau in prehistoric Asia. Perhaps in unremembered dreams tonight;

perhaps in some other form an aeon hence, when the solar system shall have been swept

away.‖

At this point the thought-waves abruptly ceased, and the pale eyes of the dreamer—or can I

say dead man?—commenced to glaze fishily. In a half-stupor I crossed over to the couch and

felt of his wrist, but found it cold, stiff, and pulseless. The sallow cheeks paled again, and the

thick lips fell open, disclosing the repulsively rotten fangs of the degenerate Joe Slater. I

shivered, pulled a blanket over the hideous face, and awakened the nurse. Then I left the cell

and went silently to my room. I had an insistent and unaccountable craving for a sleep whose

dreams I should not remember.

The climax? What plain tale of science can boast of such a rhetorical effect? I have merely set

down certain things appealing to me as facts, allowing you to construe them as you will. As I

have already admitted, my superior, old Dr. Fenton, denies the reality of everything I have

related. He vows that I was broken down with nervous strain, and badly in need of the long

vacation on full pay which he so generously gave me. He assures me on his professional

honour that Joe Slater was but a low-grade paranoiac, whose fantastic notions must have

come from the crude hereditary folk-tales which circulate in even the most decadent of

communities. All this he tells me—yet I cannot forget what I saw in the sky on the night after

Slater died. Lest you think me a biassed witness, another‘s pen must add this final testimony,

Memory

(1919)

In the valley of Nis the accursed waning moon shines thinly, tearing a path for its light with

feeble horns through the lethal foliage of a great upas-tree. And within the depths of the

valley, where the light reaches not, move forms not meet to be beheld. Rank is the herbage

on each slope, where evil vines and creeping plants crawl amidst the stones of ruined

palaces, twining tightly about broken columns and strange monoliths, and heaving up marble

pavements laid by forgotten hands. And in trees that grow gigantic in crumbling courtyards

leap little apes, while in and out of deep treasure-vaults writhe poison serpents and scaly

things without a name.

Vast are the stones which sleep beneath coverlets of dank moss, and mighty were the walls

from which they fell. For all time did their builders erect them, and in sooth they yet serve

nobly, for beneath them the grey toad makes his habitation.

At the very bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are slimy and filled with

weeds. From hidden springs it rises, and to subterranean grottoes it flows, so that the

Daemon of the Valley knows not why its waters are red, nor whither they are bound.

The Genie that haunts the moonbeams spake to the Daemon of the Valley, saying, ―I am old,

and forget much. Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of

stone.‖ And the Daemon replied, ―I am Memory, and am wise in lore of the past, but I too am

old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I

recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, for it was like to that of

the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These

beings of yesterday were called Man.‖

So the Genie flew back to the thin horned moon, and the Daemon looked intently at a little

ape in a tree that grew in a crumbling courtyard.

Return to Table of Contents

Old Bugs

(1919)

Sheehan‘s Pool Room, which adorns one of the lesser alleys in the heart of Chicago‘s

stockyard district, is not a nice place. Its air, freighted with a thousand odours such as

Coleridge may have found at Cologne, too seldom knows the purifying rays of the sun; but

fights for space with the acrid fumes of unnumbered cheap cigars and cigarettes which

dangle from the coarse lips of unnumbered human animals that haunt the place day and

night. But the popularity of Sheehan‘s remains unimpaired; and for this there is a reason—a

reason obvious to anyone who will take the trouble to analyse the mixed stenches prevailing

there. Over and above the fumes and sickening closeness rises an aroma once familiar

throughout the land, but now happily banished to the back streets of life by the edict of a

benevolent government—the aroma of strong, wicked whiskey—a precious kind of forbidden

fruit indeed in this year of grace 1950.

Sheehan‘s is the acknowledged centre to Chicago‘s subterranean traffic in liquor and

narcotics, and as such has a certain dignity which extends even to the unkempt attachés of

the place; but there was until lately one who lay outside the pale of that dignity—one who

shared the squalor and filth, but not the importance, of Sheehan‘s. He was called ―Old Bugs‖,

and was the most disreputable object in a disreputable environment. What he had once been,

many tried to guess; for his language and mode of utterance when intoxicated to a certain

degree were such as to excite wonderment; but what he was, presented less difficulty—for

―Old Bugs‖, in superlative degree, epitomised the pathetic species known as the ―bum‖ or the

―down-and-outer‖. Whence he had come, no one could tell. One night he had burst wildly into

Sheehan‘s, foaming at the mouth and screaming for whiskey and hasheesh; and having been

supplied in exchange for a promise to perform odd jobs, had hung about ever since, mopping

floors, cleaning cuspidors and glasses, and attending to an hundred similar menial duties in

exchange for the drink and drugs which were necessary to keep him alive and sane.

He talked but little, and usually in the common jargon of the underworld; but occasionally,

when inflamed by an unusually generous dose of crude whiskey, would burst forth into strings

of incomprehensible polysyllables and snatches of sonorous prose and verse which led

certain habitués to conjecture that he had seen better days. One steady patron—a bank

defaulter under cover—came to converse with him quite regularly, and from the tone of his

discourse ventured the opinion that he had been a writer or professor in his day. But the only

tangible clue to Old Bugs‘ past was a faded photograph which he constantly carried about

with him—the photograph of a young woman of noble and beautiful features. This he would

sometimes draw from his tattered pocket, carefully unwrap from its covering of tissue paper,

and gaze upon for hours with an expression of ineffable sadness and tenderness. It was not

the portrait of one whom an underworld denizen would be likely to know, but of a lady of

breeding and quality, garbed in the quaint attire of thirty years before. Old Bugs himself

seemed also to belong to the past, for his nondescript clothing bore every hallmark of

antiquity. He was a man of immense height, probably more than six feet, though his stooping

shoulders sometimes belied this fact. His hair, a dirty white and falling out in patches, was

never combed; and over his lean face grew a mangy stubble of coarse beard which seemed

always to remain at the bristling stage—never shaven—yet never long enough to form a

respectable set of whiskers. His features had perhaps been noble once, but were now

seamed with the ghastly effects of terrible dissipation. At one time—probably in middle life—

he had evidently been grossly fat; but now he was horribly lean, the purple flesh hanging in

loose pouches under his bleary eyes and upon his cheeks. Altogether, Old Bugs was not

pleasing to look upon.

The disposition of Old Bugs was as odd as his aspect. Ordinarily he was true to the derelict

type—ready to do anything for a nickel or a dose of whiskey or hasheesh—but at rare

intervals he shewed the traits which earned him his name. Then he would try to straighten up,

and a certain fire would creep into the sunken eyes. His demeanour would assume an

unwonted grace and even dignity; and the sodden creatures around him would sense

something of superiority—something which made them less ready to give the usual kicks and

cuffs to the poor butt and drudge. At these times he would shew a sardonic humour and make

remarks which the folk of Sheehan‘s deemed foolish and irrational. But the spells would soon

pass, and once more Old Bugs would resume his eternal floor-scrubbing and cuspidor-

cleaning. But for one thing Old Bugs would have been an ideal slave to the establishment—

and that one thing was his conduct when young men were introduced for their first drink. The

old man would then rise from the floor in anger and excitement, muttering threats and

warnings, and seeking to dissuade the novices from embarking upon their course of ―seeing

life as it is‖. He would sputter and fume, exploding into sesquipedalian admonitions and

strange oaths, and animated by a frightful earnestness which brought a shudder to more than

one drug-racked mind in the crowded room. But after a time his alcohol-enfeebled brain would

wander from the subject, and with a foolish grin he would turn once more to his mop or

cleaning-rag.

I do not think that many of Sheehan‘s regular patrons will ever forget the day that young Alfred

Trever came. He was rather a ―find‖—a rich and high-spirited youth who would ―go the limit‖ in

anything he undertook—at least, that was the verdict of Pete Schultz, Sheehan‘s ―runner‖,

who had come across the boy at Lawrence College, in the small town of Appleton, Wisconsin.

Trever was the son of prominent parents in Appleton. His father, Karl Trever, was an attorney

and citizen of distinction, whilst his mother had made an enviable reputation as a poetess

under her maiden name of Eleanor Wing. Alfred was himself a scholar and poet of distinction,

though cursed with a certain childish irresponsibility which made him an ideal prey for

Sheehan‘s runner. He was blond, handsome, and spoiled; vivacious and eager to taste the

several forms of dissipation about which he had read and heard. At Lawrence he had been

prominent in the mock-fraternity of ―Tappa Tappa Keg‖, where he was the wildest and merriest

of the wild and merry young roysterers; but this immature, collegiate frivolity did not satisfy

him. He knew deeper vices through books, and he now longed to know them at first hand.

Perhaps this tendency toward wildness had been stimulated somewhat by the repression to

which he had been subjected at home; for Mrs. Trever had particular reason for training her

only child with rigid severity. She had, in her own youth, been deeply and permanently

impressed with the horror of dissipation by the case of one to whom she had for a time been

engaged.

Young Galpin, the fiancé in question, had been one of Appleton‘s most remarkable sons.

Attaining distinction as a boy through his wonderful mentality, he won vast fame at the

University of Wisconsin, and at the age of twenty-three returned to Appleton to take up a

professorship at Lawrence and to slip a diamond upon the finger of Appleton‘s fairest and

most brilliant daughter. For a season all went happily, till without warning the storm burst. Evil

habits, dating from a first drink taken years before in woodland seclusion, made themselves

manifest in the young professor; and only by a hurried resignation did he escape a nasty

prosecution for injury to the habits and morals of the pupils under his charge. His engagement

broken, Galpin moved east to begin life anew; but before long, Appletonians heard of his

dismissal in disgrace from New York University, where he had obtained an instructorship in

English. Galpin now devoted his time to the library and lecture platform, preparing volumes

and speeches on various subjects connected with belles lettres, and always shewing a genius

so remarkable that it seemed as if the public must sometime pardon him for his past mistakes.

His impassioned lectures in defence of Villon, Poe, Verlaine, and Oscar Wilde were applied to

himself as well, and in the short Indian summer of his glory there was talk of a renewed

engagement at a certain cultured home on Park Avenue. But then the blow fell. A final

disgrace, compared to which the others had been as nothing, shattered the illusions of those

who had come to believe in Galpin‘s reform; and the young man abandoned his name and

disappeared from public view. Rumour now and then associated him with a certain ―Consul

Hasting‖ whose work for the stage and for motion-picture companies attracted a certain

degree of attention because of its scholarly breadth and depth; but Hasting soon disappeared

from the public eye, and Galpin became only a name for parents to quote in warning accents.

Eleanor Wing soon celebrated her marriage to Karl Trever, a rising young lawyer, and of her

former admirer retained only enough memory to dictate the naming of her only son, and the

moral guidance of that handsome and headstrong youth. Now, in spite of all that guidance,

Alfred Trever was at Sheehan‘s and about to take his first drink.

―Boss,‖ cried Schultz, as he entered the vile-smelling room with his young victim, ―meet my

friend Al Trever, bes‘ li‘l‘ sport up at Lawrence—thas‘ ‘n Appleton, Wis., y‘ know. Some swell

guy, too—‘s father‘s a big corp‘ration lawyer up in his burg, ‘n‘ ‘s mother‘s some lit‘ry genius.

He wants to see life as she is—wants to know what the real lightnin‘ juice tastes like—so jus‘

remember he‘s me friend an‘ treat ‘im right.‖

As the names Trever, Lawrence, and Appleton fell on the air, the loafers seemed to sense

something unusual. Perhaps it was only some sound connected with the clicking balls of the

pool tables or the rattling glasses that were brought from the cryptic regions in the rear—

perhaps only that, plus some strange rustling of the dirty draperies at the one dingy window—

but many thought that someone in the room had gritted his teeth and drawn a very sharp

breath.

―Glad to know you, Sheehan,‖ said Trever in a quiet, well-bred tone. ―This is my first

experience in a place like this, but I am a student of life, and don‘t want to miss any

experience. There‘s poetry in this sort of thing, you know—or perhaps you don‘t know, but it‘s

all the same.‖

―Young feller,‖ responded the proprietor, ―ya come tuh th‘ right place tuh see life. We got all

kinds here—reel life an‘ a good time. The damn‘ government can try tuh make folks good ef it

wants tuh, but it can‘t stop a feller from hittin‘ ‘er up when he feels like it. Whaddya want,

feller—booze, coke, or some other sorta dope? Yuh can‘t ask for nothin‘ we ain‘t got.‖

Habitués say that it was at this point they noticed a cessation in the regular, monotonous

strokes of the mop.

―I want whiskey—good old-fashioned rye!‖ exclaimed Trever enthusiastically. ―I‘ll tell you, I‘m

good and tired of water after reading of the merry bouts fellows used to have in the old days. I

can‘t read an Anacreontic without watering at the mouth—and it‘s something a lot stronger

than water that my mouth waters for!‖

―Anacreontic—what ‘n hell‘s that?‖ several hangers-on looked up as the young man went

slightly beyond their depth. But the bank defaulter under cover explained to them that

Anacreon was a gay old dog who lived many years ago and wrote about the fun he had when

all the world was just like Sheehan‘s.

―Let me see, Trever,‖ continued the defaulter, ―didn‘t Schultz say your mother is a literary

person, too?‖

―Yes, damn it,‖ replied Trever, ―but nothing like the old Teian! She‘s one of those dull, eternal

moralisers that try to take all the joy out of life. Namby-pamby sort—ever heard of her? She

writes under her maiden name of Eleanor Wing.‖

Here it was that Old Bugs dropped his mop.

―Well, here‘s yer stuff,‖ announced Sheehan jovially as a tray of bottles and glasses was

wheeled into the room. ―Good old rye, an‘ as fiery as ya kin find anyw‘eres in Chi‘.‖

The youth‘s eyes glistened and his nostrils curled at the fumes of the brownish fluid which an

attendant was pouring out for him. It repelled him horribly, and revolted all his inherited

delicacy; but his determination to taste life to the full remained with him, and he maintained a

bold front. But before his resolution was put to the test, the unexpected intervened. Old Bugs,

springing up from the crouching position in which he had hitherto been, leaped at the youth

and dashed from his hands the uplifted glass, almost simultaneously attacking the tray of

bottles and glasses with his mop, and scattering the contents upon the floor in a confusion of

odoriferous fluid and broken bottles and tumblers. Numbers of men, or things which had been

men, dropped to the floor and began lapping at the puddles of spilled liquor, but most

remained immovable, watching the unprecedented actions of the barroom drudge and

derelict. Old Bugs straightened up before the astonished Trever, and in a mild and cultivated

voice said, ―Do not do this thing. I was like you once, and I did it. Now I am like—this.‖

―What do you mean, you damned old fool?‖ shouted Trever. ―What do you mean by interfering

with a gentleman in his pleasures?‖

Sheehan, now recovering from his astonishment, advanced and laid a heavy hand on the old

waif‘s shoulder.

―This is the last time for you, old bird!‖ he exclaimed furiously. ―When a gen‘l‘man wants tuh

take a drink here, by God, he shall, without you interferin‘. Now get th‘ hell outa here afore I

kick hell outa ya.‖

But Sheehan had reckoned without scientific knowledge of abnormal psychology and the

effects of nervous stimulus. Old Bugs, obtaining a firmer hold on his mop, began to wield it

like the javelin of a Macedonian hoplite, and soon cleared a considerable space around

himself, meanwhile shouting various disconnected bits of quotation, among which was

prominently repeated, ― . . . the sons of Belial, blown with insolence and wine.‖

The room became pandemonium, and men screamed and howled in fright at the sinister

being they had aroused. Trever seemed dazed in the confusion, and shrank to the wall as the

strife thickened. ―He shall not drink! He shall not drink!‖ Thus roared Old Bugs as he seemed

to run out of—or rise above—quotations. Policemen appeared at the door, attracted by the

noise, but for a time they made no move to intervene. Trever, now thoroughly terrified and

cured forever of his desire to see life via the vice route, edged closer to the blue-coated

newcomers. Could he but escape and catch a train for Appleton, he reflected, he would

consider his education in dissipation quite complete.

Then suddenly Old Bugs ceased to wield his javelin and stopped still—drawing himself up

more erectly than any denizen of the place had ever seen him before. ―Ave, Caesar, moriturus

te saluto!” he shouted, and dropped to the whiskey-reeking floor, never to rise again.

Subsequent impressions will never leave the mind of young Trever. The picture is blurred, but

ineradicable. Policemen ploughed a way through the crowd, questioning everyone closely

both about the incident and about the dead figure on the floor. Sheehan especially did they

ply with inquiries, yet without eliciting any information of value concerning Old Bugs. Then the

bank defaulter remembered the picture, and suggested that it be viewed and filed for

identification at police headquarters. An officer bent reluctantly over the loathsome glassy-

eyed form and found the tissue-wrapped cardboard, which he passed around among the

others.

―Some chicken!‖ leered a drunken man as he viewed the beautiful face, but those who were

sober did not leer, looking with respect and abashment at the delicate and spiritual features.

No one seemed able to place the subject, and all wondered that the drug-degraded derelict

should have such a portrait in his possession—that is, all but the bank defaulter, who was

meanwhile eyeing the intruding bluecoats rather uneasily. He had seen a little deeper beneath

Old Bugs‘ mask of utter degradation.

Then the picture was passed to Trever, and a change came over the youth. After the first start,

he replaced the tissue wrapping around the portrait, as if to shield it from the sordidness of

the place. Then he gazed long and searchingly at the figure on the floor, noting its great

height, and the aristocratic cast of features which seemed to appear now that the wretched

flame of life had flickered out. No, he said hastily, as the question was put to him, he did not

know the subject of the picture. It was so old, he added, that no one now could be expected to

recognise it.

But Alfred Trever did not speak the truth, as many guessed when he offered to take charge of

the body and secure its interment in Appleton. Over the library mantel in his home hung the

exact replica of that picture, and all his life he had known and loved its original.

For the gentle and noble features were those of his own mother.

Return to Table of Contents

The Transition of Juan Romero

(1919)

Of the events which took place at the Norton Mine on October 18th and 19th, 1894, I have no

desire to speak. A sense of duty to science is all that impels me to recall, in these last years of

my life, scenes and happenings fraught with a terror doubly acute because I cannot wholly

define it. But I believe that before I die I should tell what I know of the—shall I say transition—

of Juan Romero.

My name and origin need not be related to posterity; in fact, I fancy it is better that they should

not be, for when a man suddenly migrates to the States or the Colonies, he leaves his past

behind him. Besides, what I once was is not in the least relevant to my narrative; save

perhaps the fact that during my service in India I was more at home amongst white-bearded

native teachers than amongst my brother-officers. I had delved not a little into odd Eastern

lore when overtaken by the calamities which brought about my new life in America‘s vast

West—a life wherein I found it well to accept a name—my present one—which is very

common and carries no meaning.

In the summer and autumn of 1894 I dwelt in the drear expanses of the Cactus Mountains,

employed as a common labourer at the celebrated Norton Mine; whose discovery by an aged

prospector some years before had turned the surrounding region from a nearly unpeopled

waste to a seething cauldron of sordid life. A cavern of gold, lying deep below a mountain

lake, had enriched its venerable finder beyond his wildest dreams, and now formed the seat

of extensive tunnelling operations on the part of the corporation to which it had finally been

sold. Additional grottoes had been found, and the yield of yellow metal was exceedingly great;

so that a mighty and heterogeneous army of miners toiled day and night in the numerous

passages and rock hollows. The Superintendent, a Mr. Arthur, often discussed the singularity

of the local geological formations; speculating on the probable extent of the chain of caves,

and estimating the future of the titanic mining enterprise. He considered the auriferous

cavities the result of the action of water, and believed the last of them would soon be opened.

It was not long after my arrival and employment that Juan Romero came to the Norton Mine.

One of a large herd of unkempt Mexicans attracted thither from the neighbouring country, he

at first commanded attention only because of his features; which though plainly of the Red

Indian type, were yet remarkable for their light colour and refined conformation, being vastly

unlike those of the average ―Greaser‖ or Piute of the locality. It is curious that although he

differed so widely from the mass of Hispanicised and tribal Indians, Romero gave not the least

impression of Caucasian blood. It was not the Castilian conquistador or the American pioneer,

but the ancient and noble Aztec, whom imagination called to view when the silent peon would

rise in the early morning and gaze in fascination at the sun as it crept above the eastern hills,

meanwhile stretching out his arms to the orb as if in the performance of some rite whose

nature he did not himself comprehend. But save for his face, Romero was not in any way

suggestive of nobility. Ignorant and dirty, he was at home amongst the other brown-skinned

Mexicans; having come (so I was afterward told) from the very lowest sort of surroundings.

He had been found as a child in a crude mountain hut, the only survivor of an epidemic which

had stalked lethally by. Near the hut, close to a rather unusual rock fissure, had lain two

skeletons, newly picked by vultures, and presumably forming the sole remains of his parents.

No one recalled their identity, and they were soon forgotten by the many. Indeed, the

crumbling of the adobe hut and the closing of the rock fissure by a subsequent avalanche had

helped to efface even the scene from recollection. Reared by a Mexican cattle-thief who had

given him his name, Juan differed little from his fellows.

The attachment which Romero manifested toward me was undoubtedly commenced through

the quaint and ancient Hindoo ring which I wore when not engaged in active labour. Of its

nature, and manner of coming into my possession, I cannot speak. It was my last link with a

chapter of life forever closed, and I valued it highly. Soon I observed that the odd-looking

Mexican was likewise interested; eyeing it with an expression that banished all suspicion of

mere covetousness. Its hoary hieroglyphs seemed to stir some faint recollection in his

untutored but active mind, though he could not possibly have beheld their like before. Within a

few weeks after his advent, Romero was like a faithful servant to me; this notwithstanding the

fact that I was myself but an ordinary miner. Our conversation was necessarily limited. He

knew but a few words of English, while I found my Oxonian Spanish was something quite

different from the patois of the peon of New Spain.

The event which I am about to relate was unheralded by long premonitions. Though the man

Romero had interested me, and though my ring had affected him peculiarly, I think that neither

of us had any expectation of what was to follow when the great blast was set off. Geological

considerations had dictated an extension of the mine directly downward from the deepest part

of the subterranean area; and the belief of the Superintendent that only solid rock would be

encountered, had led to the placing of a prodigious charge of dynamite. With this work

Romero and I were not connected, wherefore our first knowledge of extraordinary conditions

came from others. The charge, heavier perhaps than had been estimated, had seemed to

shake the entire mountain. Windows in shanties on the slope outside were shattered by the

shock, whilst miners throughout the nearer passages were knocked from their feet. Jewel

Lake, which lay above the scene of action, heaved as in a tempest. Upon investigation it was

seen that a new abyss yawned indefinitely below the seat of the blast; an abyss so monstrous

that no handy line might fathom it, nor any lamp illuminate it. Baffled, the excavators sought a

conference with the Superintendent, who ordered great lengths of rope to be taken to the pit,

and spliced and lowered without cessation till a bottom might be discovered.

Shortly afterward the pale-faced workmen apprised the Superintendent of their failure. Firmly

though respectfully they signified their refusal to revisit the chasm, or indeed to work further in

the mine until it might be sealed. Something beyond their experience was evidently

confronting them, for so far as they could ascertain, the void below was infinite. The

Superintendent did not reproach them. Instead, he pondered deeply, and made many plans

for the following day. The night shift did not go on that evening.

At two in the morning a lone coyote on the mountain began to howl dismally. From

somewhere within the works a dog barked in answer; either to the coyote—or to something

else. A storm was gathering around the peaks of the range, and weirdly shaped clouds

scudded horribly across the blurred patch of celestial light which marked a gibbous moon‘s

attempts to shine through many layers of cirro-stratus vapours. It was Romero‘s voice, coming

from the bunk above, that awakened me; a voice excited and tense with some vague

expectation I could not understand:

―¡Madre de Dios!—el sonido—ese sonido—¡oiga Vd! ¿lo oye Vd?—Señor, THAT SOUND!‖

I listened, wondering what sound he meant. The coyote, the dog, the storm, all were audible;

the last named now gaining ascendancy as the wind shrieked more and more frantically.

Flashes of lightning were visible through the bunk-house window. I questioned the nervous

Mexican, repeating the sounds I had heard:

―¿El coyote?—¿el perro?—¿el viento?”

But Romero did not reply. Then he commenced whispering as in awe:

―El ritmo, Señor—el ritmo de la tierra—THAT THROB DOWN IN THE GROUND!‖

And now I also heard; heard and shivered and without knowing why. Deep, deep, below me

was a sound—a rhythm, just as the peon had said—which, though exceedingly faint, yet

dominated even the dog, the coyote, and the increasing tempest. To seek to describe it were

useless—for it was such that no description is possible. Perhaps it was like the pulsing of the

engines far down in a great liner, as sensed from the deck, yet it was not so mechanical; not

so devoid of the element of life and consciousness. Of all its qualities, remoteness in the earth

most impressed me. To my mind rushed fragments of a passage in Joseph Glanvill which Poe

has quoted with tremendous effect—

―—the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a

depth in them greater than the well of Democritus.‖

Suddenly Romero leaped from his bunk; pausing before me to gaze at the strange ring on my

hand, which glistened queerly in every flash of lightning, and then staring intently in the

direction of the mine shaft. I also rose, and both stood motionless for a time, straining our

ears as the uncanny rhythm seemed more and more to take on a vital quality. Then without

apparent volition we began to move toward the door, whose rattling in the gale held a

comforting suggestion of earthly reality. The chanting in the depths—for such the sound now

seemed to be—grew in volume and distinctness; and we felt irresistibly urged out into the

storm and thence to the gaping blackness of the shaft.

We encountered no living creature, for the men of the night shift had been released from duty,

and were doubtless at the Dry Gulch settlement pouring sinister rumours into the ear of some

drowsy bartender. From the watchman‘s cabin, however, gleamed a small square of yellow

light like a guardian eye. I dimly wondered how the rhythmic sound had affected the

watchman; but Romero was moving more swiftly now, and I followed without pausing.

As we descended the shaft, the sound beneath grew definitely composite. It struck me as

horribly like a sort of Oriental ceremony, with beating of drums and chanting of many voices. I

have, as you are aware, been much in India. Romero and I moved without material hesitancy

through drifts and down ladders; ever toward the thing that allured us, yet ever with a pitifully

helpless fear and reluctance. At one time I fancied I had gone mad—this was when, on

wondering how our way was lighted in the absence of lamp or candle, I realised that the

ancient ring on my finger was glowing with eerie radiance, diffusing a pallid lustre through the

damp, heavy air around.

It was without warning that Romero, after clambering down one of the many rude ladders,

broke into a run and left me alone. Some new and wild note in the drumming and chanting,

perceptible but slightly to me, had acted on him in startling fashion; and with a wild outcry he

forged ahead unguided in the cavern‘s gloom. I heard his repeated shrieks before me, as he

stumbled awkwardly along the level places and scrambled madly down the rickety ladders.

And frightened as I was, I yet retained enough of perception to note that his speech, when

articulate, was not of any sort known to me. Harsh but impressive polysyllables had replaced

the customary mixture of bad Spanish and worse English, and of these only the oft repeated

cry ―Huitzilopotchli” seemed in the least familiar. Later I definitely placed that word in the

works of a great historian—and shuddered when the association came to me.

The climax of that awful night was composite but fairly brief, beginning just as I reached the

final cavern of the journey. Out of the darkness immediately ahead burst a final shriek from

the Mexican, which was joined by such a chorus of uncouth sound as I could never hear

again and survive. In that moment it seemed as if all the hidden terrors and monstrosities of

earth had become articulate in an effort to overwhelm the human race. Simultaneously the

light from my ring was extinguished, and I saw a new light glimmering from lower space but a

few yards ahead of me. I had arrived at the abyss, which was now redly aglow, and which had

evidently swallowed up the unfortunate Romero. Advancing, I peered over the edge of that

chasm which no line could fathom, and which was now a pandemonium of flickering flame

and hideous uproar. At first I beheld nothing but a seething blur of luminosity; but then

shapes, all infinitely distant, began to detach themselves from the confusion, and I saw—was

it Juan Romero?—but God! I dare not tell you what I saw! . . . Some power from heaven,

coming to my aid, obliterated both sights and sounds in such a crash as may be heard when

two universes collide in space. Chaos supervened, and I knew the peace of oblivion.

I hardly know how to continue, since conditions so singular are involved; but I will do my best,

not even trying to differentiate betwixt the real and the apparent. When I awaked, I was safe in

my bunk and the red glow of dawn was visible at the window. Some distance away the lifeless

body of Juan Romero lay upon a table, surrounded by a group of men, including the camp

doctor. The men were discussing the strange death of the Mexican as he lay asleep; a death

seemingly connected in some way with the terrible bolt of lightning which had struck and

shaken the mountain. No direct cause was evident, and an autopsy failed to shew any reason

why Romero should not be living. Snatches of conversation indicated beyond a doubt that

neither Romero nor I had left the bunkhouse during the night; that neither had been awake

during the frightful storm which had passed over the Cactus range. That storm, said men who

had ventured down the mine shaft, had caused extensive caving in, and had completely

closed the deep abyss which had created so much apprehension the day before. When I

asked the watchman what sounds he had heard prior to the mighty thunderbolt, he mentioned

a coyote, a dog, and the snarling mountain wind—nothing more. Nor do I doubt his word.

Upon the resumption of work Superintendent Arthur called on some especially dependable

men to make a few investigations around the spot where the gulf had appeared. Though

hardly eager, they obeyed; and a deep boring was made. Results were very curious. The roof

of the void, as seen whilst it was open, was not by any means thick; yet now the drills of the

investigators met what appeared to be a limitless extent of solid rock. Finding nothing else,

not even gold, the Superintendent abandoned his attempts; but a perplexed look occasionally

steals over his countenance as he sits thinking at his desk.

One other thing is curious. Shortly after waking on that morning after the storm, I noticed the

unaccountable absence of my Hindoo ring from my finger. I had prized it greatly, yet

nevertheless felt a sensation of relief at its disappearance. If one of my fellow-miners

appropriated it, he must have been quite clever in disposing of his booty, for despite

advertisements and a police search the ring was never seen again. Somehow I doubt if it was

stolen by mortal hands, for many strange things were taught me in India.

My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad daylight, and at most

seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it a mere dream; but sometimes in the autumn,

about two in the morning when winds and animals howl dismally, there comes from

inconceivable depths below a damnable suggestion of rhythmical throbbing . . . and I feel that

the transition of Juan Romero was a terrible one indeed.

The White Ship

(1919)

I am Basil Elton, keeper of the North Point light that my father and grandfather kept before

me. Far from the shore stands the grey lighthouse, above sunken slimy rocks that are seen

when the tide is low, but unseen when the tide is high. Past that beacon for a century have

swept the majestic barques of the seven seas. In the days of my grandfather there were

many; in the days of my father not so many; and now there are so few that I sometimes feel

strangely alone, as though I were the last man on our planet.

From far shores came those white-sailed argosies of old; from far Eastern shores where

warm suns shine and sweet odours linger about strange gardens and gay temples. The old

captains of the sea came often to my grandfather and told him of these things, which in turn

he told to my father, and my father told to me in the long autumn evenings when the wind

howled eerily from the East. And I have read more of these things, and of many things

besides, in the books men gave me when I was young and filled with wonder.

But more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean.

Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent. All

my days have I watched it and listened to it, and I know it well. At first it told to me only the

plain little tales of calm beaches and near ports, but with the years it grew more friendly and

spoke of other things; of things more strange and more distant in space and in time.

Sometimes at twilight the grey vapours of the horizon have parted to grant me glimpses of the

ways beyond; and sometimes at night the deep waters of the sea have grown clear and

phosphorescent, to grant me glimpses of the ways beneath. And these glimpses have been

as often of the ways that were and the ways that might be, as of the ways that are; for ocean

is more ancient than the mountains, and freighted with the memories and the dreams of Time.

Out of the South it was that the White Ship used to come when the moon was full and high in

the heavens. Out of the South it would glide very smoothly and silently over the sea. And

whether the sea was rough or calm, and whether the wind was friendly or adverse, it would

always glide smoothly and silently, its sails distant and its long strange tiers of oars moving

rhythmically. One night I espied upon the deck a man, bearded and robed, and he seemed to

beckon me to embark for fair unknown shores. Many times afterward I saw him under the full

moon, and ever did he beckon me.

Very brightly did the moon shine on the night I answered the call, and I walked out over the

waters to the White Ship on a bridge of moonbeams. The man who had beckoned now spoke

a welcome to me in a soft language I seemed to know well, and the hours were filled with soft

songs of the oarsmen as we glided away into a mysterious South, golden with the glow of that

full, mellow moon.

And when the day dawned, rosy and effulgent, I beheld the green shore of far lands, bright

and beautiful, and to me unknown. Up from the sea rose lordly terraces of verdure, tree-

studded, and shewing here and there the gleaming white roofs and colonnades of strange

temples. As we drew nearer the green shore the bearded man told me of that land, the Land

of Zar, where dwell all the dreams and thoughts of beauty that come to men once and then

are forgotten. And when I looked upon the terraces again I saw that what he said was true, for

among the sights before me were many things I had once seen through the mists beyond the

horizon and in the phosphorescent depths of ocean. There too were forms and fantasies more

splendid than any I had ever known; the visions of young poets who died in want before the

world could learn of what they had seen and dreamed. But we did not set foot upon the

sloping meadows of Zar, for it is told that he who treads them may nevermore return to his

native shore.

As the White Ship sailed silently away from the templed terraces of Zar, we beheld on the

distant horizon ahead the spires of a mighty city; and the bearded man said to me: ―This is

Thalarion, the City of a Thousand Wonders, wherein reside all those mysteries that man has

striven in vain to fathom.‖ And I looked again, at closer range, and saw that the city was

greater than any city I had known or dreamed of before. Into the sky the spires of its temples

reached, so that no man might behold their peaks; and far back beyond the horizon stretched

the grim, grey walls, over which one might spy only a few roofs, weird and ominous, yet

adorned with rich friezes and alluring sculptures. I yearned mightily to enter this fascinating

yet repellent city, and besought the bearded man to land me at the stone pier by the huge

carven gate Akariel; but he gently denied my wish, saying: ―Into Thalarion, the City of a

Thousand Wonders, many have passed but none returned. Therein walk only daemons and

mad things that are no longer men, and the streets are white with the unburied bones of those

who have looked upon the eidolon Lathi, that reigns over the city.‖ So the White Ship sailed

on past the walls of Thalarion, and followed for many days a southward-flying bird, whose

glossy plumage matched the sky out of which it had appeared.

Then came we to a pleasant coast gay with blossoms of every hue, where as far inland as we

could see basked lovely groves and radiant arbours beneath a meridian sun. From bowers

beyond our view came bursts of song and snatches of lyric harmony, interspersed with faint

laughter so delicious that I urged the rowers onward in my eagerness to reach the scene. And

the bearded man spoke no word, but watched me as we approached the lily-lined shore.

Suddenly a wind blowing from over the flowery meadows and leafy woods brought a scent at

which I trembled. The wind grew stronger, and the air was filled with the lethal, charnel odour

of plague-stricken towns and uncovered cemeteries. And as we sailed madly away from that

damnable coast the bearded man spoke at last, saying: ―This is Xura, the Land of Pleasures

Unattained.‖

So once more the White Ship followed the bird of heaven, over warm blessed seas fanned by

caressing, aromatic breezes. Day after day and night after night did we sail, and when the

moon was full we would listen to soft songs of the oarsmen, sweet as on that distant night

when we sailed away from my far native land. And it was by moonlight that we anchored at

last in the harbour of Sona-Nyl, which is guarded by twin headlands of crystal that rise from

the sea and meet in a resplendent arch. This is the Land of Fancy, and we walked to the

verdant shore upon a golden bridge of moonbeams.

In the Land of Sona-Nyl there is neither time nor space, neither suffering nor death; and there

I dwelt for many aeons. Green are the groves and pastures, bright and fragrant the flowers,

blue and musical the streams, clear and cool the fountains, and stately and gorgeous the

temples, castles, and cities of Sona-Nyl. Of that land there is no bound, for beyond each vista

of beauty rises another more beautiful. Over the countryside and amidst the splendour of

cities rove at will the happy folk, of whom all are gifted with unmarred grace and unalloyed

happiness. For the aeons that I dwelt there I wandered blissfully through gardens where

quaint pagodas peep from pleasing clumps of bushes, and where the white walks are

bordered with delicate blossoms. I climbed gentle hills from whose summits I could see

entrancing panoramas of loveliness, with steepled towns nestling in verdant valleys, and with

the golden domes of gigantic cities glittering on the infinitely distant horizon. And I viewed by

moonlight the sparkling sea, the crystal headlands, and the placid harbour wherein lay

anchored the White Ship.

It was against the full moon one night in the immemorial year of Tharp that I saw outlined the

beckoning form of the celestial bird, and felt the first stirrings of unrest. Then I spoke with the

bearded man, and told him of my new yearnings to depart for remote Cathuria, which no man

hath seen, but which all believe to lie beyond the basalt pillars of the West. It is the Land of

Hope, and in it shine the perfect ideals of all that we know elsewhere; or at least so men

relate. But the bearded man said to me: ―Beware of those perilous seas wherein men say

Cathuria lies. In Sona-Nyl there is no pain nor death, but who can tell what lies beyond the

basalt pillars of the West?‖ Natheless at the next full moon I boarded the White Ship, and with

the reluctant bearded man left the happy harbour for untravelled seas.

And the bird of heaven flew before, and led us toward the basalt pillars of the West, but this

time the oarsmen sang no soft songs under the full moon. In my mind I would often picture the

unknown Land of Cathuria with its splendid groves and palaces, and would wonder what new

delights there awaited me. ―Cathuria,‖ I would say to myself, ―is the abode of gods and the

land of unnumbered cities of gold. Its forests are of aloe and sandalwood, even as the

fragrant groves of Camorin, and among the trees flutter gay birds sweet with song. On the

green and flowery mountains of Cathuria stand temples of pink marble, rich with carven and

painted glories, and having in their courtyards cool fountains of silver, where purl with

ravishing music the scented waters that come from the grotto-born river Narg. And the cities

of Cathuria are cinctured with golden walls, and their pavements also are of gold. In the

gardens of these cities are strange orchids, and perfumed lakes whose beds are of coral and

amber. At night the streets and the gardens are lit with gay lanthorns fashioned from the

three-coloured shell of the tortoise, and here resound the soft notes of the singer and the

lutanist. And the houses of the cities of Cathuria are all palaces, each built over a fragrant

canal bearing the waters of the sacred Narg. Of marble and porphyry are the houses, and

roofed with glittering gold that reflects the rays of the sun and enhances the splendour of the

cities as blissful gods view them from the distant peaks. Fairest of all is the palace of the great

monarch Dorieb, whom some say to be a demigod and others a god. High is the palace of

Dorieb, and many are the turrets of marble upon its walls. In its wide halls many multitudes

assemble, and here hang the trophies of the ages. And the roof is of pure gold, set upon tall

pillars of ruby and azure, and having such carven figures of gods and heroes that he who

looks up to those heights seems to gaze upon the living Olympus. And the floor of the palace

is of glass, under which flow the cunningly lighted waters of the Narg, gay with gaudy fish not

known beyond the bounds of lovely Cathuria.‖

Thus would I speak to myself of Cathuria, but ever would the bearded man warn me to turn

back to the happy shores of Sona-Nyl; for Sona-Nyl is known of men, while none hath ever

beheld Cathuria.

And on the thirty-first day that we followed the bird, we beheld the basalt pillars of the West.

Shrouded in mist they were, so that no man might peer beyond them or see their summits—

which indeed some say reach even to the heavens. And the bearded man again implored me

to turn back, but I heeded him not; for from the mists beyond the basalt pillars I fancied there

came the notes of singer and lutanist; sweeter than the sweetest songs of Sona-Nyl, and

sounding mine own praises; the praises of me, who had voyaged far under the full moon and

dwelt in the Land of Fancy.

So to the sound of melody the White Ship sailed into the mist betwixt the basalt pillars of the

West. And when the music ceased and the mist lifted, we beheld not the Land of Cathuria, but

a swift-rushing resistless sea, over which our helpless barque was borne toward some

unknown goal. Soon to our ears came the distant thunder of falling waters, and to our eyes

appeared on the far horizon ahead the titanic spray of a monstrous cataract, wherein the

oceans of the world drop down to abysmal nothingness. Then did the bearded man say to me

with tears on his cheek: ―We have rejected the beautiful Land of Sona-Nyl, which we may

never behold again. The gods are greater than men, and they have conquered.‖ And I closed

my eyes before the crash that I knew would come, shutting out the sight of the celestial bird

which flapped its mocking blue wings over the brink of the torrent.

Out of that crash came darkness, and I heard the shrieking of men and of things which were

not men. From the East tempestuous winds arose, and chilled me as I crouched on the slab

of damp stone which had risen beneath my feet. Then as I heard another crash I opened my

eyes and beheld myself upon the platform of that lighthouse from whence I had sailed so

many aeons ago. In the darkness below there loomed the vast blurred outlines of a vessel

breaking up on the cruel rocks, and as I glanced out over the waste I saw that the light had

failed for the first time since my grandfather had assumed its care.

And in the later watches of the night, when I went within the tower, I saw on the wall a

calendar which still remained as when I had left it at the hour I sailed away. With the dawn I

descended the tower and looked for wreckage upon the rocks, but what I found was only this:

a strange dead bird whose hue was as of the azure sky, and a single shattered spar, of a

whiteness greater than that of the wave-tips or of the mountain snow.

And thereafter the ocean told me its secrets no more; and though many times since has the

moon shone full and high in the heavens, the White Ship from the South came never again.

Return to Table of Contents

The Doom That Came to Sarnath

(1919)

There is in the land of Mnar a vast still lake that is fed by no stream and out of which no

stream flows. Ten thousand years ago there stood by its shore the mighty city of Sarnath, but

Sarnath stands there no more.

It is told that in the immemorial years when the world was young, before ever the men of

Sarnath came to the land of Mnar, another city stood beside the lake; the grey stone city of Ib,

which was old as the lake itself, and peopled with beings not pleasing to behold. Very odd and

ugly were these beings, as indeed are most beings of a world yet inchoate and rudely

fashioned. It is written on the brick cylinders of Kadatheron that the beings of Ib were in hue

as green as the lake and the mists that rise above it; that they had bulging eyes, pouting,

flabby lips, and curious ears, and were without voice. It is also written that they descended

one night from the moon in a mist; they and the vast still lake and grey stone city Ib. However

this may be, it is certain that they worshipped a sea-green stone idol chiselled in the likeness

of Bokrug, the great water-lizard; before which they danced horribly when the moon was

gibbous. And it is written in the papyrus of Ilarnek, that they one day discovered fire, and

thereafter kindled flames on many ceremonial occasions. But not much is written of these

beings, because they lived in very ancient times, and man is young, and knows little of the

very ancient living things.

After many aeons men came to the land of Mnar; dark shepherd folk with their fleecy flocks,

who built Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai. And certain tribes, more

hardy than the rest, pushed on to the border of the lake and built Sarnath at a spot where

precious metals were found in the earth.

Not far from the grey city of Ib did the wandering tribes lay the first stones of Sarnath, and at

the beings of Ib they marvelled greatly. But with their marvelling was mixed hate, for they

thought it not meet that beings of such aspect should walk about the world of men at dusk.

Nor did they like the strange sculptures upon the grey monoliths of Ib, for those sculptures

were terrible with great antiquity. Why the beings and the sculptures lingered so late in the

world, even until the coming of men, none can tell; unless it was because the land of Mnar is

very still, and remote from most other lands both of waking and of dream.

As the men of Sarnath beheld more of the beings of Ib their hate grew, and it was not less

because they found the beings weak, and soft as jelly to the touch of stones and spears and

arrows. So one day the young warriors, the slingers and the spearmen and the bowmen,

marched against Ib and slew all the inhabitants thereof, pushing the queer bodies into the

lake with long spears, because they did not wish to touch them. And because they did not like

the grey sculptured monoliths of Ib they cast these also into the lake; wondering from the

greatness of the labour how ever the stones were brought from afar, as they must have been,

since there is naught like them in all the land of Mnar or in the lands adjacent.

Thus of the very ancient city of Ib was nothing spared save the sea-green stone idol chiselled

in the likeness of Bokrug, the water-lizard. This the young warriors took back with them to

Sarnath as a symbol of conquest over the old gods and beings of Ib, and a sign of leadership

in Mnar. But on the night after it was set up in the temple a terrible thing must have happened,

for weird lights were seen over the lake, and in the morning the people found the idol gone,

and the high-priest Taran-Ish lying dead, as from some fear unspeakable. And before he died,

Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of chrysolite with coarse shaky strokes the sign of

DOOM.

After Taran-Ish there were many high-priests in Sarnath, but never was the sea-green stone

idol found. And many centuries came and went, wherein Sarnath prospered exceedingly, so

that only priests and old women remembered what Taran-Ish had scrawled upon the altar of

chrysolite. Betwixt Sarnath and the city of Ilarnek arose a caravan route, and the precious

metals from the earth were exchanged for other metals and rare cloths and jewels and books

and tools for artificers and all things of luxury that are known to the people who dwell along

the winding river Ai and beyond. So Sarnath waxed mighty and learned and beautiful, and

sent forth conquering armies to subdue the neighbouring cities; and in time there sate upon a

throne in Sarnath the kings of all the land of Mnar and of many lands adjacent.

The wonder of the world and the pride of all mankind was Sarnath the magnificent. Of

polished desert-quarried marble were its walls, in height 300 cubits and in breadth 75, so that

chariots might pass each other as men drave them along the top. For full 500 stadia did they

run, being open only on the side toward the lake; where a green stone sea-wall kept back the

waves that rose oddly once a year at the festival of the destroying of Ib. In Sarnath were fifty

streets from the lake to the gates of the caravans, and fifty more intersecting them. With onyx

were they paved, save those whereon the horses and camels and elephants trod, which were

paved with granite. And the gates of Sarnath were as many as the landward ends of the

streets, each of bronze, and flanked by the figures of lions and elephants carven from some

stone no longer known among men. The houses of Sarnath were of glazed brick and

chalcedony, each having its walled garden and crystal lakelet. With strange art were they

builded, for no other city had houses like them; and travellers from Thraa and Ilarnek and

Kadatheron marvelled at the shining domes wherewith they were surmounted.

But more marvellous still were the palaces and the temples, and the gardens made by Zokkar

the olden king. There were many palaces, the least of which were mightier than any in Thraa

or Ilarnek or Kadatheron. So high were they that one within might sometimes fancy himself

beneath only the sky; yet when lighted with torches dipt in the oil of Dothur their walls shewed

vast paintings of kings and armies, of a splendour at once inspiring and stupefying to the

beholder. Many were the pillars of the palaces, all of tinted marble, and carven into designs of

surpassing beauty. And in most of the palaces the floors were mosaics of beryl and lapis-lazuli

and sardonyx and carbuncle and other choice materials, so disposed that the beholder might

fancy himself walking over beds of the rarest flowers. And there were likewise fountains,

which cast scented waters about in pleasing jets arranged with cunning art. Outshining all

others was the palace of the kings of Mnar and of the lands adjacent. On a pair of golden

crouching lions rested the throne, many steps above the gleaming floor. And it was wrought of

one piece of ivory, though no man lives who knows whence so vast a piece could have come.

In that palace there were also many galleries, and many amphitheatres where lions and men

and elephants battled at the pleasure of the kings. Sometimes the amphitheatres were

flooded with water conveyed from the lake in mighty aqueducts, and then were enacted

stirring sea-fights, or combats betwixt swimmers and deadly marine things.

Lofty and amazing were the seventeen tower-like temples of Sarnath, fashioned of a bright

multi-coloured stone not known elsewhere. A full thousand cubits high stood the greatest

among them, wherein the high-priests dwelt with a magnificence scarce less than that of the

kings. On the ground were halls as vast and splendid as those of the palaces; where gathered

throngs in worship of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon, the chief gods of Sarnath, whose

incense-enveloped shrines were as the thrones of monarchs. Not like the eikons of other

gods were those of Zo-Kalar and Tamash and Lobon, for so close to life were they that one

might swear the graceful bearded gods themselves sate on the ivory thrones. And up

unending steps of shining zircon was the tower-chamber, wherefrom the high-priests looked

out over the city and the plains and the lake by day; and at the cryptic moon and significant

stars and planets, and their reflections in the lake, by night. Here was done the very secret

and ancient rite in detestation of Bokrug, the water-lizard, and here rested the altar of

chrysolite which bore the DOOM-scrawl of Taran-Ish.

Wonderful likewise were the gardens made by Zokkar the olden king. In the centre of Sarnath

they lay, covering a great space and encircled by a high wall. And they were surmounted by a

mighty dome of glass, through which shone the sun and moon and stars and planets when it

was clear, and from which were hung fulgent images of the sun and moon and stars and

planets when it was not clear. In summer the gardens were cooled with fresh odorous

breezes skilfully wafted by fans, and in winter they were heated with concealed fires, so that

in those gardens it was always spring. There ran little streams over bright pebbles, dividing

meads of green and gardens of many hues, and spanned by a multitude of bridges. Many

were the waterfalls in their courses, and many were the lilied lakelets into which they

expanded. Over the streams and lakelets rode white swans, whilst the music of rare birds

chimed in with the melody of the waters. In ordered terraces rose the green banks, adorned

here and there with bowers of vines and sweet blossoms, and seats and benches of marble

and porphyry. And there were many small shrines and temples where one might rest or pray

to small gods.

Each year there was celebrated in Sarnath the feast of the destroying of Ib, at which time

wine, song, dancing, and merriment of every kind abounded. Great honours were then paid to

the shades of those who had annihilated the odd ancient beings, and the memory of those

beings and of their elder gods was derided by dancers and lutanists crowned with roses from

the gardens of Zokkar. And the kings would look out over the lake and curse the bones of the

dead that lay beneath it. At first the high-priests liked not these festivals, for there had

descended amongst them queer tales of how the sea-green eikon had vanished, and how

Taran-Ish had died from fear and left a warning. And they said that from their high tower they

sometimes saw lights beneath the waters of the lake. But as many years passed without

calamity even the priests laughed and cursed and joined in the orgies of the feasters. Indeed,

had they not themselves, in their high tower, often performed the very ancient and secret rite

in detestation of Bokrug, the water-lizard? And a thousand years of riches and delight passed

over Sarnath, wonder of the world and pride of all mankind.

Gorgeous beyond thought was the feast of the thousandth year of the destroying of Ib. For a

decade had it been talked of in the land of Mnar, and as it drew nigh there came to Sarnath

on horses and camels and elephants men from Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron, and all the

cities of Mnar and the lands beyond. Before the marble walls on the appointed night were

pitched the pavilions of princes and the tents of travellers, and all the shore resounded with

the song of happy revellers. Within his banquet-hall reclined Nargis-Hei, the king, drunken

with ancient wine from the vaults of conquered Pnath, and surrounded by feasting nobles and

hurrying slaves. There were eaten many strange delicacies at that feast; peacocks from the

isles of Nariel in the Middle Ocean, young goats from the distant hills of Implan, heels of

camels from the Bnazic desert, nuts and spices from Cydathrian groves, and pearls from

wave-washed Mtal dissolved in the vinegar of Thraa. Of sauces there were an untold number,

prepared by the subtlest cooks in all Mnar, and suited to the palate of every feaster. But most

prized of all the viands were the great fishes from the lake, each of vast size, and served up

on golden platters set with rubies and diamonds.

Whilst the king and his nobles feasted within the palace, and viewed the crowning dish as it

awaited them on golden platters, others feasted elsewhere. In the tower of the great temple

the priests held revels, and in pavilions without the walls the princes of neighbouring lands

made merry. And it was the high-priest Gnai-Kah who first saw the shadows that descended

from the gibbous moon into the lake, and the damnable green mists that arose from the lake

to meet the moon and to shroud in a sinister haze the towers and the domes of fated Sarnath.

Thereafter those in the towers and without the walls beheld strange lights on the water, and

saw that the grey rock Akurion, which was wont to rear high above it near the shore, was

almost submerged. And fear grew vaguely yet swiftly, so that the princes of Ilarnek and of far

Rokol took down and folded their tents and pavilions and departed for the river Ai, though they

scarce knew the reason for their departing.

Then, close to the hour of midnight, all the bronze gates of Sarnath burst open and emptied

forth a frenzied throng that blackened the plain, so that all the visiting princes and travellers

fled away in fright. For on the faces of this throng was writ a madness born of horror

unendurable, and on their tongues were words so terrible that no hearer paused for proof.

Men whose eyes were wild with fear shrieked aloud of the sight within the king‘s banquet-hall,

where through the windows were seen no longer the forms of Nargis-Hei and his nobles and

slaves, but a horde of indescribable green voiceless things with bulging eyes, pouting, flabby

lips, and curious ears; things which danced horribly, bearing in their paws golden platters set

with rubies and diamonds containing uncouth flames. And the princes and travellers, as they

fled from the doomed city of Sarnath on horses and camels and elephants, looked again upon

the mist-begetting lake and saw the grey rock Akurion was quite submerged.

Through all the land of Mnar and the lands adjacent spread the tales of those who had fled

from Sarnath, and caravans sought that accursed city and its precious metals no more. It was

long ere any traveller went thither, and even then only the brave and adventurous young men

of distant Falona dared make the journey; adventurous young men of yellow hair and blue

eyes, who are no kin to the men of Mnar. These men indeed went to the lake to view Sarnath;

but though they found the vast still lake itself, and the grey rock Akurion which rears high

above it near the shore, they beheld not the wonder of the world and pride of all mankind.

Where once had risen walls of 300 cubits and towers yet higher, now stretched only the

marshy shore, and where once had dwelt fifty millions of men now crawled only the detestable

green water-lizard. Not even the mines of precious metal remained, for DOOM had come to

Sarnath.

But half buried in the rushes was spied a curious green idol of stone; an exceedingly ancient

idol coated with seaweed and chiselled in the likeness of Bokrug, the great water-lizard. That

idol, enshrined in the high temple at Ilarnek, was subsequently worshipped beneath the

gibbous moon throughout the land of Mnar.

Return to Table of Contents

The Statement of Randolph Carter

(1920)

I repeat to you, gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here forever if you will;

confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice; but I

can say no more than I have said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told with

perfect candour. Nothing has been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is

only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind—that cloud and the nebulous

nature of the horrors which brought it upon me.

Again I say, I do not know what has become of Harley Warren; though I think—almost hope—

that he is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true that I have for

five years been his closest friend, and a partial sharer of his terrible researches into the

unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is uncertain and indistinct, that this witness of

yours may have seen us together as he says, on the Gainesville pike, walking toward Big

Cypress Swamp, at half past eleven on that awful night. That we bore electric lanterns,

spades, and a curious coil of wire with attached instruments, I will even affirm; for these things

all played a part in the single hideous scene which remains burned into my shaken

recollection. But of what followed, and of the reason I was found alone and dazed on the edge

of the swamp next morning, I must insist that I know nothing save what I have told you over

and over again. You say to me that there is nothing in the swamp or near it which could form

the setting of that frightful episode. I reply that I know nothing beyond what I saw. Vision or

nightmare it may have been—vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was—yet it is all that my

mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after we left the sight of men. And

why Harley Warren did not return, he or his shade—or some nameless thing I cannot

describe—alone can tell.

As I have said before, the weird studies of Harley Warren were well known to me, and to

some extent shared by me. Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects

I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master; but these are few as

compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the

fiend-inspired book which brought on the end—the book which he carried in his pocket out of

the world—was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere. Warren would never

tell me just what was in that book. As to the nature of our studies—must I say again that I no

longer retain full comprehension? It seems to me rather merciful that I do not, for they were

terrible studies, which I pursued more through reluctant fascination than through actual

inclination. Warren always dominated me, and sometimes I feared him. I remember how I

shuddered at his facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked

so incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm and fat in their

tombs for a thousand years. But I do not fear him now, for I suspect that he has known

horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for him.

Once more I say that I have no clear idea of our object on that night. Certainly, it had much to

do with something in the book which Warren carried with him—that ancient book in

undecipherable characters which had come to him from India a month before—but I swear I

do not know what it was that we expected to find. Your witness says he saw us at half past

eleven on the Gainesville pike, headed for Big Cypress Swamp. This is probably true, but I

have no distinct memory of it. The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the

hour must have been long after midnight; for a waning crescent moon was high in the

vaporous heavens.

The place was an ancient cemetery; so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of

immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank grass, moss, and

curious creeping weeds, and filled with a vague stench which my idle fancy associated

absurdly with rotting stone. On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude, and I

seemed haunted by the notion that Warren and I were the first living creatures to invade a

lethal silence of centuries. Over the valley‘s rim a wan, waning crescent moon peered through

the noisome vapours that seemed to emanate from unheard-of catacombs, and by its feeble,

wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs, and

mausolean facades; all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and partly concealed

by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vegetation. My first vivid impression of my own

presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of pausing with Warren before a certain

half-obliterated sepulchre, and of throwing down some burdens which we seemed to have

been carrying. I now observed that I had with me an electric lantern and two spades, whilst

my companion was supplied with a similar lantern and a portable telephone outfit. No word

was uttered, for the spot and the task seemed known to us; and without delay we seized our

spades and commenced to clear away the grass, weeds, and drifted earth from the flat,

archaic mortuary. After uncovering the entire surface, which consisted of three immense

granite slabs, we stepped back some distance to survey the charnel scene; and Warren

appeared to make some mental calculations. Then he returned to the sepulchre, and using

his spade as a lever, sought to pry up the slab lying nearest to a stony ruin which may have

been a monument in its day. He did not succeed, and motioned to me to come to his

assistance. Finally our combined strength loosened the stone, which we raised and tipped to

one side.

The removal of the slab revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of

miasmal gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however, we

approached the pit again, and found the exhalations less unbearable. Our lanterns disclosed

the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable ichor of the inner earth, and

bordered by moist walls encrusted with nitre. And now for the first time my memory records

verbal discourse, Warren addressing me at length in his mellow tenor voice; a voice singularly

unperturbed by our awesome surroundings.

―I‘m sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface,‖ he said, ―but it would be a crime to let

anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can‘t imagine, even from what you have

read and from what I‘ve told you, the things I shall have to see and do. It‘s fiendish work,

Carter, and I doubt if any man without ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and

come up alive and sane. I don‘t wish to offend you, and heaven knows I‘d be glad enough to

have you with me; but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine, and I couldn‘t drag a

bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you can‘t imagine

what the thing is really like! But I promise to keep you informed over the telephone of every

move—you see I‘ve enough wire here to reach to the centre of the earth and back!‖

I can still hear, in memory, those coolly spoken words; and I can still remember my

remonstrances. I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulchral

depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time he threatened to abandon the

expedition if I remained insistent; a threat which proved effective, since he alone held the key

to the thing. All this I can still remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing we

sought. After he had secured my reluctant acquiescence in his design, Warren picked up the

reel of wire and adjusted the instruments. At his nod I took one of the latter and seated myself

upon an aged, discoloured gravestone close by the newly uncovered aperture. Then he

shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and disappeared within that indescribable

ossuary. For a moment I kept sight of the glow of his lantern, and heard the rustle of the wire

as he laid it down after him; but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in the stone

staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as quickly. I was alone, yet

bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands whose insulated surface lay green

beneath the struggling beams of that waning crescent moon.

In the lone silence of that hoary and deserted city of the dead, my mind conceived the most

ghastly phantasies and illusions; and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed to assume

a hideous personality—a half-sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed to lurk in the darker

recesses of the weed-choked hollow and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial

procession past the portals of the mouldering tombs in the hillside; shadows which could not

have been cast by that pallid, peering crescent moon. I constantly consulted my watch by the

light of my electric lantern, and listened with feverish anxiety at the receiver of the telephone;

but for more than a quarter of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the

instrument, and I called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was

nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in accents

more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from Harley Warren. He who had so

calmly left me a little while previously, now called from below in a shaky whisper more

portentous than the loudest shriek:

―God! If you could see what I am seeing!”

I could not answer. Speechless, I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again:

―Carter, it’s terrible—monstrous—unbelievable!”

This time my voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited

questions. Terrified, I continued to repeat, ―Warren, what is it? What is it?‖

Once more came the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear, and now apparently tinged with

despair:

―I can’t tell you, Carter! It’s too utterly beyond thought—I dare not tell you—no man could

know it and live—Great God! I never dreamed of THIS!” Stillness again, save for my now

incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry. Then the voice of Warren in a pitch of wilder

consternation:

―Carter! for the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can! Quick!—leave

everything else and make for the outside—it’s your only chance! Do as I say, and don’t ask

me to explain!”

I heard, yet was able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the

darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human

imagination. But my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I felt a vague

resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under such circumstances.

More clicking, and after a pause a piteous cry from Warren:

―Beat it! For God’s sake, put back the slab and beat it, Carter!”

Something in the boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I

formed and shouted a resolution, ―Warren, brace up! I‘m coming down!‖ But at this offer the

tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair:

―Don’t! You can’t understand! It’s too late—and my own fault. Put back the slab and run—

there’s nothing else you or anyone can do now!” The tone changed again, this time acquiring

a softer quality, as of hopeless resignation. Yet it remained tense through anxiety for me.

―Quick—before it’s too late!” I tried not to heed him; tried to break through the paralysis which

held me, and to fulfil my vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held

inert in the chains of stark horror.

―Carter—hurry! It’s no use—you must go—better one than two—the slab—” A pause, more

clicking, then the faint voice of Warren:

―Nearly over now—don’t make it harder—cover up those damned steps and run for your life—

you’re losing time— So long, Carter—won’t see you again.” Here Warren‘s whisper swelled

into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages—

―Curse these hellish things—legions— My God! Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!”

After that was silence. I know not how many interminable aeons I sat stupefied; whispering,

muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those aeons I

whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, ―Warren! Warren! Answer me—are

you there?‖

And then there came to me the crowning horror of all—the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost

unmentionable thing. I have said that aeons seemed to elapse after Warren shrieked forth his

last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a

while there was a further clicking in the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I

called down, ―Warren, are you there?‖, and in answer heard the thing which has brought this

cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlemen, to account for that thing—that voice—nor can I

venture to describe it in detail, since the first words took away my consciousness and created

a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the

voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I

say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and knew no

more. Heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the hollow, amidst the crumbling

stones and the falling tombs, the rank vegetation and the miasmal vapours. Heard it well up

from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulchre as I watched amorphous,

necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon. And this is what it said:

―YOU FOOL, WARREN IS DEAD!”

Return to Table of Contents

The Terrible Old Man

(1920)

It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call on the Terrible Old

Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and

is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very

attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva, for that profession

was nothing less dignified than robbery.

The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which

generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues,

despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere

about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have

been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when

he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the

front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones,

oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple.

This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man

about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with

wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who

sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a

table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of

lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to

these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe,

Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within

makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer. Those who have watched the tall, lean,

Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci

and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and

heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New England life and

traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless greybeard,

who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook

pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom

everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business,

and to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very

old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few

necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.

Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva selected the night of April 11th for their call. Mr. Ricci and

Mr. Silva were to interview the poor old gentleman, whilst Mr. Czanek waited for them and

their presumable metallic burden with a covered motor-car in Ship Street, by the gate in the

tall rear wall of their host‘s grounds. Desire to avoid needless explanations in case of

unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans for a quiet and unostentatious departure.

As prearranged, the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent any evil-

minded suspicions afterward. Messrs. Ricci and Silva met in Water Street by the old man‘s

front gate, and although they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted

stones through the budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things to

think about than mere idle superstition. They feared it might be unpleasant work making the

Terrible Old Man loquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver, for aged sea-captains

are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble, and there were two

visitors. Messrs. Ricci and Silva were experienced in the art of making unwilling persons

voluble, and the screams of a weak and exceptionally venerable man can be easily muffled.

So they moved up to the one lighted window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly

to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-

stained oaken door.

Waiting seemed very long to Mr. Czanek as he fidgeted restlessly in the covered motor-car by

the Terrible Old Man‘s back gate in Ship Street. He was more than ordinarily tender-hearted,

and he did not like the hideous screams he had heard in the ancient house just after the hour

appointed for the deed. Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible with the

pathetic old sea-captain? Very nervously he watched that narrow oaken gate in the high and

ivy-clad stone wall. Frequently he consulted his watch, and wondered at the delay. Had the

old man died before revealing where his treasure was hidden, and had a thorough search

become necessary? Mr. Czanek did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a place. Then

he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at the

rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward. And in the pallid glow of the single

dim street-lamp he strained his eyes to see what his colleagues had brought out of that

sinister house which loomed so close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he

had expected; for his colleagues were not there at all, but only the Terrible Old Man leaning

quietly on his knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mr. Czanek had never before noticed the

colour of that man‘s eyes; now he saw that they were yellow.

Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the reason that Kingsport

people talked all that spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies, horribly

slashed as with many cutlasses, and horribly mangled as by the tread of many cruel boot-

heels, which the tide washed in. And some people even spoke of things as trivial as the

deserted motor-car found in Ship Street, or certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a

stray animal or migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle village

gossip the Terrible Old Man took no interest at all. He was by nature reserved, and when one

is aged and feeble one‘s reserve is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea-captain must

have witnessed scores of things much more stirring in the far-off days of his unremembered

youth.

Return to Table of Contents

The Tree

(1920)

―Fata viam invenient.‖

On a verdant slope of Mount Maenalus, in Arcadia, there stands an olive grove about the

ruins of a villa. Close by is a tomb, once beautiful with the sublimest sculptures, but now fallen

into as great decay as the house. At one end of that tomb, its curious roots displacing the

time-stained blocks of Pentelic marble, grows an unnaturally large olive tree of oddly repellent

shape; so like to some grotesque man, or death-distorted body of a man, that the country folk

fear to pass it at night when the moon shines faintly through the crooked boughs. Mount

Maenalus is a chosen haunt of dreaded Pan, whose queer companions are many, and simple

swains believe that the tree must have some hideous kinship to these weird Panisci; but an

old bee-keeper who lives in the neighbouring cottage told me a different story.

Many years ago, when the hillside villa was new and resplendent, there dwelt within it the two

sculptors Kalos and Musides. From Lydia to Neapolis the beauty of their work was praised,

and none dared say that the one excelled the other in skill. The Hermes of Kalos stood in a

marble shrine in Corinth, and the Pallas of Musides surmounted a pillar in Athens, near the

Parthenon. All men paid homage to Kalos and Musides, and marvelled that no shadow of

artistic jealousy cooled the warmth of their brotherly friendship.

But though Kalos and Musides dwelt in unbroken harmony, their natures were not alike.

Whilst Musides revelled by night amidst the urban gaieties of Tegea, Kalos would remain at

home; stealing away from the sight of his slaves into the cool recesses of the olive grove.

There he would meditate upon the visions that filled his mind, and there devise the forms of

beauty which later became immortal in breathing marble. Idle folk, indeed, said that Kalos

conversed with the spirits of the grove, and that his statues were but images of the fauns and

dryads he met there—for he patterned his work after no living model.

So famous were Kalos and Musides, that none wondered when the Tyrant of Syracuse sent

to them deputies to speak of the costly statue of Tyché which he had planned for his city. Of

great size and cunning workmanship must the statue be, for it was to form a wonder of

nations and a goal of travellers. Exalted beyond thought would be he whose work should gain

acceptance, and for this honour Kalos and Musides were invited to compete. Their brotherly

love was well known, and the crafty Tyrant surmised that each, instead of concealing his work

from the other, would offer aid and advice; this charity producing two images of unheard-of

beauty, the lovelier of which would eclipse even the dreams of poets.

With joy the sculptors hailed the Tyrant‘s offer, so that in the days that followed their slaves

heard the ceaseless blows of chisels. Not from each other did Kalos and Musides conceal

their work, but the sight was for them alone. Saving theirs, no eyes beheld the two divine

figures released by skilful blows from the rough blocks that had imprisoned them since the

world began.

At night, as of yore, Musides sought the banquet halls of Tegea whilst Kalos wandered alone

in the olive grove. But as time passed, men observed a want of gaiety in the once sparkling

Musides. It was strange, they said amongst themselves, that depression should thus seize

one with so great a chance to win art‘s loftiest reward. Many months passed, yet in the sour

face of Musides came nothing of the sharp expectancy which the situation should arouse.

Then one day Musides spoke of the illness of Kalos, after which none marvelled again at his

sadness, since the sculptors‘ attachment was known to be deep and sacred. Subsequently

many went to visit Kalos, and indeed noticed the pallor of his face; but there was about him a

happy serenity which made his glance more magical than the glance of Musides—who was

clearly distracted with anxiety, and who pushed aside all the slaves in his eagerness to feed

and wait upon his friend with his own hands. Hidden behind heavy curtains stood the two

unfinished figures of Tyché, little touched of late by the sick man and his faithful attendant.

As Kalos grew inexplicably weaker and weaker despite the ministrations of puzzled

physicians and of his assiduous friend, he desired to be carried often to the grove which he so

loved. There he would ask to be left alone, as if wishing to speak with unseen things. Musides

ever granted his requests, though his eyes filled with visible tears at the thought that Kalos

should care more for the fauns and the dryads than for him. At last the end drew near, and

Kalos discoursed of things beyond this life. Musides, weeping, promised him a sepulchre

more lovely than the tomb of Mausolus; but Kalos bade him speak no more of marble glories.

Only one wish now haunted the mind of the dying man; that twigs from certain olive trees in

the grove be buried by his resting-place—close to his head. And one night, sitting alone in the

darkness of the olive grove, Kalos died.

Beautiful beyond words was the marble sepulchre which stricken Musides carved for his

beloved friend. None but Kalos himself could have fashioned such bas-reliefs, wherein were

displayed all the splendours of Elysium. Nor did Musides fail to bury close to Kalos‘ head the

olive twigs from the grove.

As the first violence of Musides‘ grief gave place to resignation, he laboured with diligence

upon his figure of Tyché. All honour was now his, since the Tyrant of Syracuse would have the

work of none save him or Kalos. His task proved a vent for his emotion, and he toiled more

steadily each day, shunning the gaieties he once had relished. Meanwhile his evenings were

spent beside the tomb of his friend, where a young olive tree had sprung up near the

sleeper‘s head. So swift was the growth of this tree, and so strange was its form, that all who

beheld it exclaimed in surprise; and Musides seemed at once fascinated and repelled.

Three years after the death of Kalos, Musides despatched a messenger to the Tyrant, and it

was whispered in the agora at Tegea that the mighty statue was finished. By this time the tree

by the tomb had attained amazing proportions, exceeding all other trees of its kind, and

sending out a singularly heavy branch above the apartment in which Musides laboured. As

many visitors came to view the prodigious tree, as to admire the art of the sculptor, so that

Musides was seldom alone. But he did not mind his multitude of guests; indeed, he seemed

to dread being alone now that his absorbing work was done. The bleak mountain wind,

sighing through the olive grove and the tomb-tree, had an uncanny way of forming vaguely

articulate sounds.

The sky was dark on the evening that the Tyrant‘s emissaries came to Tegea. It was definitely

known that they had come to bear away the great image of Tyché and bring eternal honour to

Musides, so their reception by the proxenoi was of great warmth. As the night wore on, a

violent storm of wind broke over the crest of Maenalus, and the men from far Syracuse were

glad that they rested snugly in the town. They talked of their illustrious Tyrant, and of the

splendour of his capital; and exulted in the glory of the statue which Musides had wrought for

him. And then the men of Tegea spoke of the goodness of Musides, and of his heavy grief for

his friend; and how not even the coming laurels of art could console him in the absence of

Kalos, who might have worn those laurels instead. Of the tree which grew by the tomb, near

the head of Kalos, they also spoke. The wind shrieked more horribly, and both the

Syracusans and the Arcadians prayed to Aiolos.

In the sunshine of the morning the proxenoi led the Tyrant‘s messengers up the slope to the

abode of the sculptor, but the night-wind had done strange things. Slaves‘ cries ascended

from a scene of desolation, and no more amidst the olive grove rose the gleaming colonnades

of that vast hall wherein Musides had dreamed and toiled. Lone and shaken mourned the

humble courts and the lower walls, for upon the sumptuous greater peristyle had fallen

squarely the heavy overhanging bough of the strange new tree, reducing the stately poem in

marble with odd completeness to a mound of unsightly ruins. Strangers and Tegeans stood

aghast, looking from the wreckage to the great, sinister tree whose aspect was so weirdly

human and whose roots reached so queerly into the sculptured sepulchre of Kalos. And their

fear and dismay increased when they searched the fallen apartment; for of the gentle

Musides, and of the marvellously fashioned image of Tyché, no trace could be discovered.

Amidst such stupendous ruin only chaos dwelt, and the representatives of two cities left

disappointed; Syracusans that they had no statue to bear home, Tegeans that they had no

artist to crown. However, the Syracusans obtained after a while a very splendid statue in

Athens, and the Tegeans consoled themselves by erecting in the agora a marble temple

commemorating the gifts, virtues, and brotherly piety of Musides.

But the olive grove still stands, as does the tree growing out of the tomb of Kalos, and the old

bee-keeper told me that sometimes the boughs whisper to one another in the night-wind,

saying over and over again, ―Oida! Oida!—I know! I know!”

Return to Table of Contents

The Cats of Ulthar

(1920)

It is said that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, no man may kill a cat; and this I can

verily believe as I gaze upon him who sitteth purring before the fire. For the cat is cryptic, and

close to strange things which men cannot see. He is the soul of antique Aegyptus, and bearer

of tales from forgotten cities in Meroë and Ophir. He is the kin of the jungle‘s lords, and heir to

the secrets of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks her

language; but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers that which she hath

forgotten.

In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and

his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbours. Why they did this I know

not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run

stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and

woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and

from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying

was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and

his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because

their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a

neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them

more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished

pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through

some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would

lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who

had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is all cats

first came.

One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets

of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the

village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay

beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was

seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their

wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams, and lions.

And the leader of the caravan wore a head-dress with two horns and a curious disc betwixt

the horns.

There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black

kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to

mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics

of a black kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he

wept as he sate playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.

On the third morning of the wanderers‘ stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as

he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife,

and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to

meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a

tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to

understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the

clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there

seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures

crowned with horn-flanked discs. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.

That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were

troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each

hearth the familiar cat had vanished; cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow, and

white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in

revenge for the killing of Menes‘ kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the

lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for

their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the

sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper‘s son, vowed that he had at twilight seen

all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in

a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of

beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they

feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the

old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.

So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awaked at dawn—behold! every

cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow, and

white, none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring

content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marvelled not a little. Old

Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return

alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing: that the

refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was

exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no

food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.

It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the

windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that no one had seen

the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster

decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty,

though in so doing he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter

of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two

cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles

crawling in the shadowy corners.

There was subsequently much talk among the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner,

disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were

overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper‘s son, was closely questioned and

given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of

dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky

during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was

later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.

And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in

Hatheg and discussed by travellers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat.

Return to Table of Contents

The Temple

(1920)

(Manuscript found on the coast of Yucatan.)

On August 20, 1917, I, Karl Heinrich, Graf von Altberg-Ehrenstein, Lieutenant-Commander in

the Imperial German Navy and in charge of the submarine U-29, deposit this bottle and

record in the Atlantic Ocean at a point to me unknown but probably about N. Latitude 20°, W.

Longitude 35°, where my ship lies disabled on the ocean floor. I do so because of my desire

to set certain unusual facts before the public; a thing I shall not in all probability survive to

accomplish in person, since the circumstances surrounding me are as menacing as they are

extraordinary, and involve not only the hopeless crippling of the U-29, but the impairment of

my iron German will in a manner most disastrous.

On the afternoon of June 18, as reported by wireless to the U-61, bound for Kiel, we

torpedoed the British freighter Victory, New York to Liverpool, in N. Latitude 45° 16', W.

Longitude 28° 34'; permitting the crew to leave in boats in order to obtain a good cinema view

for the admiralty records. The ship sank quite picturesquely, bow first, the stern rising high out

of the water whilst the hull shot down perpendicularly to the bottom of the sea. Our camera

missed nothing, and I regret that so fine a reel of film should never reach Berlin. After that we

sank the lifeboats with our guns and submerged.

When we rose to the surface about sunset a seaman‘s body was found on the deck, hands

gripping the railing in curious fashion. The poor fellow was young, rather dark, and very

handsome; probably an Italian or Greek, and undoubtedly of the Victory’s crew. He had

evidently sought refuge on the very ship which had been forced to destroy his own—one

more victim of the unjust war of aggression which the English pig-dogs are waging upon the

Fatherland. Our men searched him for souvenirs, and found in his coat pocket a very odd bit

of ivory carved to represent a youth‘s head crowned with laurel. My fellow-officer, Lieut.

Klenze, believed that the thing was of great age and artistic value, so took it from the men for

himself. How it had ever come into the possession of a common sailor, neither he nor I could

imagine.

As the dead man was thrown overboard there occurred two incidents which created much

disturbance amongst the crew. The fellow‘s eyes had been closed; but in the dragging of his

body to the rail they were jarred open, and many seemed to entertain a queer delusion that

they gazed steadily and mockingly at Schmidt and Zimmer, who were bent over the corpse.

The Boatswain Müller, an elderly man who would have known better had he not been a

superstitious Alsatian swine, became so excited by this impression that he watched the body

in the water; and swore that after it sank a little it drew its limbs into a swimming position and

sped away to the south under the waves. Klenze and I did not like these displays of peasant

ignorance, and severely reprimanded the men, particularly Müller.

The next day a very troublesome situation was created by the indisposition of some of the

crew. They were evidently suffering from the nervous strain of our long voyage, and had had

bad dreams. Several seemed quite dazed and stupid; and after satisfying myself that they

were not feigning their weakness, I excused them from their duties. The sea was rather

rough, so we descended to a depth where the waves were less troublesome. Here we were

comparatively calm, despite a somewhat puzzling southward current which we could not

identify from our oceanographic charts. The moans of the sick men were decidedly annoying;

but since they did not appear to demoralise the rest of the crew, we did not resort to extreme

measures. It was our plan to remain where we were and intercept the liner Dacia, mentioned

in information from agents in New York.

In the early evening we rose to the surface, and found the sea less heavy. The smoke of a

battleship was on the northern horizon, but our distance and ability to submerge made us

safe. What worried us more was the talk of Boatswain Müller, which grew wilder as night

came on. He was in a detestably childish state, and babbled of some illusion of dead bodies

drifting past the undersea portholes; bodies which looked at him intensely, and which he

recognised in spite of bloating as having seen dying during some of our victorious German

exploits. And he said that the young man we had found and tossed overboard was their

leader. This was very gruesome and abnormal, so we confined Müller in irons and had him

soundly whipped. The men were not pleased at his punishment, but discipline was necessary.

We also denied the request of a delegation headed by Seaman Zimmer, that the curious

carved ivory head be cast into the sea.

On June 20, Seamen Bohm and Schmidt, who had been ill the day before, became violently

insane. I regretted that no physician was included in our complement of officers, since

German lives are precious; but the constant ravings of the two concerning a terrible curse

were most subversive of discipline, so drastic steps were taken. The crew accepted the event

in a sullen fashion, but it seemed to quiet Müller; who thereafter gave us no trouble. In the

evening we released him, and he went about his duties silently.

In the week that followed we were all very nervous, watching for the Dacia. The tension was

aggravated by the disappearance of Müller and Zimmer, who undoubtedly committed suicide

as a result of the fears which had seemed to harass them, though they were not observed in

the act of jumping overboard. I was rather glad to be rid of Müller, for even his silence had

unfavourably affected the crew. Everyone seemed inclined to be silent now, as though holding

a secret fear. Many were ill, but none made a disturbance. Lieut. Klenze chafed under the

strain, and was annoyed by the merest trifles—such as the school of dolphins which gathered

about the U-29 in increasing numbers, and the growing intensity of that southward current

which was not on our chart.

It at length became apparent that we had missed the Dacia altogether. Such failures are not

uncommon, and we were more pleased than disappointed; since our return to Wilhelmshaven

was now in order. At noon June 28 we turned northeastward, and despite some rather

comical entanglements with the unusual masses of dolphins were soon under way.

The explosion in the engine room at 2 P.M. was wholly a surprise. No defect in the machinery

or carelessness in the men had been noticed, yet without warning the ship was racked from

end to end with a colossal shock. Lieut. Klenze hurried to the engine room, finding the fuel-

tank and most of the mechanism shattered, and Engineers Raabe and Schneider instantly

killed. Our situation had suddenly become grave indeed; for though the chemical air

regenerators were intact, and though we could use the devices for raising and submerging

the ship and opening the hatches as long as compressed air and storage batteries might hold

out, we were powerless to propel or guide the submarine. To seek rescue in the lifeboats

would be to deliver ourselves into the hands of enemies unreasonably embittered against our

great German nation, and our wireless had failed ever since the Victory affair to put us in

touch with a fellow U-boat of the Imperial Navy.

From the hour of the accident till July 2 we drifted constantly to the south, almost without

plans and encountering no vessel. Dolphins still encircled the U-29, a somewhat remarkable

circumstance considering the distance we had covered. On the morning of July 2 we sighted

a warship flying American colours, and the men became very restless in their desire to

surrender. Finally Lieut. Klenze had to shoot a seaman named Traube, who urged this un-

German act with especial violence. This quieted the crew for the time, and we submerged

unseen.

The next afternoon a dense flock of sea-birds appeared from the south, and the ocean began

to heave ominously. Closing our hatches, we awaited developments until we realised that we

must either submerge or be swamped in the mounting waves. Our air pressure and electricity

were diminishing, and we wished to avoid all unnecessary use of our slender mechanical

resources; but in this case there was no choice. We did not descend far, and when after

several hours the sea was calmer, we decided to return to the surface. Here, however, a new

trouble developed; for the ship failed to respond to our direction in spite of all that the

mechanics could do. As the men grew more frightened at this undersea imprisonment, some

of them began to mutter again about Lieut. Klenze‘s ivory image, but the sight of an automatic

pistol calmed them. We kept the poor devils as busy as we could, tinkering at the machinery

even when we knew it was useless.

Klenze and I usually slept at different times; and it was during my sleep, about 5 A.M., July 4,

that the general mutiny broke loose. The six remaining pigs of seamen, suspecting that we

were lost, had suddenly burst into a mad fury at our refusal to surrender to the Yankee

battleship two days before; and were in a delirium of cursing and destruction. They roared like

the animals they were, and broke instruments and furniture indiscriminately; screaming about

such nonsense as the curse of the ivory image and the dark dead youth who looked at them

and swam away. Lieut. Klenze seemed paralysed and inefficient, as one might expect of a

soft, womanish Rhinelander. I shot all six men, for it was necessary, and made sure that none

remained alive.

We expelled the bodies through the double hatches and were alone in the U-29. Klenze

seemed very nervous, and drank heavily. It was decided that we remain alive as long as

possible, using the large stock of provisions and chemical supply of oxygen, none of which

had suffered from the crazy antics of those swine-hound seamen. Our compasses, depth

gauges, and other delicate instruments were ruined; so that henceforth our only reckoning

would be guesswork, based on our watches, the calendar, and our apparent drift as judged by

any objects we might spy through the portholes or from the conning tower. Fortunately we had

storage batteries still capable of long use, both for interior lighting and for the searchlight. We

often cast a beam around the ship, but saw only dolphins, swimming parallel to our own

drifting course. I was scientifically interested in those dolphins; for though the ordinary

Delphinus delphis is a cetacean mammal, unable to subsist without air, I watched one of the

swimmers closely for two hours, and did not see him alter his submerged condition.

With the passage of time Klenze and I decided that we were still drifting south, meanwhile

sinking deeper and deeper. We noted the marine fauna and flora, and read much on the

subject in the books I had carried with me for spare moments. I could not help observing,

however, the inferior scientific knowledge of my companion. His mind was not Prussian, but

given to imaginings and speculations which have no value. The fact of our coming death

affected him curiously, and he would frequently pray in remorse over the men, women, and

children we had sent to the bottom; forgetting that all things are noble which serve the

German state. After a time he became noticeably unbalanced, gazing for hours at his ivory

image and weaving fanciful stories of the lost and forgotten things under the sea. Sometimes,

as a psychological experiment, I would lead him on in these wanderings, and listen to his

endless poetical quotations and tales of sunken ships. I was very sorry for him, for I dislike to

see a German suffer; but he was not a good man to die with. For myself I was proud, knowing

how the Fatherland would revere my memory and how my sons would be taught to be men

like me.

On August 9, we espied the ocean floor, and sent a powerful beam from the searchlight over

it. It was a vast undulating plain, mostly covered with seaweed, and strown with the shells of

small molluscs. Here and there were slimy objects of puzzling contour, draped with weeds

and encrusted with barnacles, which Klenze declared must be ancient ships lying in their

graves. He was puzzled by one thing, a peak of solid matter, protruding above the ocean bed

nearly four feet at its apex; about two feet thick, with flat sides and smooth upper surfaces

which met at a very obtuse angle. I called the peak a bit of outcropping rock, but Klenze

thought he saw carvings on it. After a while he began to shudder, and turned away from the

scene as if frightened; yet could give no explanation save that he was overcome with the

vastness, darkness, remoteness, antiquity, and mystery of the oceanic abysses. His mind was

tired, but I am always a German, and was quick to notice two things; that the U-29 was

standing the deep-sea pressure splendidly, and that the peculiar dolphins were still about us,

even at a depth where the existence of high organisms is considered impossible by most

naturalists. That I had previously overestimated our depth, I was sure; but none the less we

must still be deep enough to make these phenomena remarkable. Our southward speed, as

gauged by the ocean floor, was about as I had estimated from the organisms passed at

higher levels.

It was at 3:15 P.M., August 12, that poor Klenze went wholly mad. He had been in the conning

tower using the searchlight when I saw him bound into the library compartment where I sat

reading, and his face at once betrayed him. I will repeat here what he said, underlining the

words he emphasised: ―He is calling! He is calling! I hear him! We must go!‖ As he spoke he

took his ivory image from the table, pocketed it, and seized my arm in an effort to drag me up

the companionway to the deck. In a moment I understood that he meant to open the hatch

and plunge with me into the water outside, a vagary of suicidal and homicidal mania for which

I was scarcely prepared. As I hung back and attempted to soothe him he grew more violent,

saying: ―Come now—do not wait until later; it is better to repent and be forgiven than to defy

and be condemned.‖ Then I tried the opposite of the soothing plan, and told him he was

mad—pitifully demented. But he was unmoved, and cried: ―If I am mad, it is mercy! May the

gods pity the man who in his callousness can remain sane to the hideous end! Come and be

mad whilst he still calls with mercy!‖

This outburst seemed to relieve a pressure in his brain; for as he finished he grew much

milder, asking me to let him depart alone if I would not accompany him. My course at once

became clear. He was a German, but only a Rhinelander and a commoner; and he was now a

potentially dangerous madman. By complying with his suicidal request I could immediately

free myself from one who was no longer a companion but a menace. I asked him to give me

the ivory image before he went, but this request brought from him such uncanny laughter that

I did not repeat it. Then I asked him if he wished to leave any keepsake or lock of hair for his

family in Germany in case I should be rescued, but again he gave me that strange laugh. So

as he climbed the ladder I went to the levers, and allowing proper time-intervals operated the

machinery which sent him to his death. After I saw that he was no longer in the boat I threw

the searchlight around the water in an effort to obtain a last glimpse of him; since I wished to

ascertain whether the water-pressure would flatten him as it theoretically should, or whether

the body would be unaffected, like those extraordinary dolphins. I did not, however, succeed

in finding my late companion, for the dolphins were massed thickly and obscuringly about the

conning tower.

That evening I regretted that I had not taken the ivory image surreptitiously from poor Klenze‘s

pocket as he left, for the memory of it fascinated me. I could not forget the youthful, beautiful

head with its leafy crown, though I am not by nature an artist. I was also sorry that I had no

one with whom to converse. Klenze, though not my mental equal, was much better than no

one. I did not sleep well that night, and wondered exactly when the end would come. Surely, I

had little enough chance of rescue.

The next day I ascended to the conning tower and commenced the customary searchlight

explorations. Northward the view was much the same as it had been all the four days since

we had sighted the bottom, but I perceived that the drifting of the U-29 was less rapid. As I

swung the beam around to the south, I noticed that the ocean floor ahead fell away in a

marked declivity, and bore curiously regular blocks of stone in certain places, disposed as if in

accordance with definite patterns. The boat did not at once descend to match the greater

ocean depth, so I was soon forced to adjust the searchlight to cast a sharply downward beam.

Owing to the abruptness of the change a wire was disconnected, which necessitated a delay

of many minutes for repairs; but at length the light streamed on again, flooding the marine

valley below me.

I am not given to emotion of any kind, but my amazement was very great when I saw what lay

revealed in that electrical glow. And yet as one reared in the best Kultur of Prussia I should

not have been amazed, for geology and tradition alike tell us of great transpositions in

oceanic and continental areas. What I saw was an extended and elaborate array of ruined

edifices; all of magnificent though unclassified architecture, and in various stages of

preservation. Most appeared to be of marble, gleaming whitely in the rays of the searchlight,

and the general plan was of a large city at the bottom of a narrow valley, with numerous

isolated temples and villas on the steep slopes above. Roofs were fallen and columns were

broken, but there still remained an air of immemorially ancient splendour which nothing could

efface.

Confronted at last with the Atlantis I had formerly deemed largely a myth, I was the most

eager of explorers. At the bottom of that valley a river once had flowed; for as I examined the

scene more closely I beheld the remains of stone and marble bridges and sea-walls, and

terraces and embankments once verdant and beautiful. In my enthusiasm I became nearly as

idiotic and sentimental as poor Klenze, and was very tardy in noticing that the southward

current had ceased at last, allowing the U-29 to settle slowly down upon the sunken city as an

aëroplane settles upon a town of the upper earth. I was slow, too, in realising that the school

of unusual dolphins had vanished.

In about two hours the boat rested in a paved plaza close to the rocky wall of the valley. On

one side I could view the entire city as it sloped from the plaza down to the old river-bank; on

the other side, in startling proximity, I was confronted by the richly ornate and perfectly

preserved facade of a great building, evidently a temple, hollowed from the solid rock. Of the

original workmanship of this titanic thing I can only make conjectures. The facade, of

immense magnitude, apparently covers a continuous hollow recess; for its windows are many

and widely distributed. In the centre yawns a great open door, reached by an impressive flight

of steps, and surrounded by exquisite carvings like the figures of Bacchanals in relief.

Foremost of all are the great columns and frieze, both decorated with sculptures of

inexpressible beauty; obviously portraying idealised pastoral scenes and processions of

priests and priestesses bearing strange ceremonial devices in adoration of a radiant god. The

art is of the most phenomenal perfection, largely Hellenic in idea, yet strangely individual. It

imparts an impression of terrible antiquity, as though it were the remotest rather than the

immediate ancestor of Greek art. Nor can I doubt that every detail of this massive product

was fashioned from the virgin hillside rock of our planet. It is palpably a part of the valley wall,

though how the vast interior was ever excavated I cannot imagine. Perhaps a cavern or series

of caverns furnished the nucleus. Neither age nor submersion has corroded the pristine

grandeur of this awful fane—for fane indeed it must be—and today after thousands of years it

rests untarnished and inviolate in the endless night and silence of an ocean chasm.

I cannot reckon the number of hours I spent in gazing at the sunken city with its buildings,

arches, statues, and bridges, and the colossal temple with its beauty and mystery. Though I

knew that death was near, my curiosity was consuming; and I threw the searchlight‘s beam

about in eager quest. The shaft of light permitted me to learn many details, but refused to

shew anything within the gaping door of the rock-hewn temple; and after a time I turned off

the current, conscious of the need of conserving power. The rays were now perceptibly

dimmer than they had been during the weeks of drifting. And as if sharpened by the coming

deprivation of light, my desire to explore the watery secrets grew. I, a German, should be the

first to tread those aeon-forgotten ways!

I produced and examined a deep-sea diving suit of joined metal, and experimented with the

portable light and air regenerator. Though I should have trouble in managing the double

hatches alone, I believed I could overcome all obstacles with my scientific skill and actually

walk about the dead city in person.

On August 16 I effected an exit from the U-29, and laboriously made my way through the

ruined and mud-choked streets to the ancient river. I found no skeletons or other human

remains, but gleaned a wealth of archaeological lore from sculptures and coins. Of this I

cannot now speak save to utter my awe at a culture in the full noon of glory when cave-

dwellers roamed Europe and the Nile flowed unwatched to the sea. Others, guided by this

manuscript if it shall ever be found, must unfold the mysteries at which I can only hint. I

returned to the boat as my electric batteries grew feeble, resolved to explore the rock temple

on the following day.

On the 17th, as my impulse to search out the mystery of the temple waxed still more insistent,

a great disappointment befell me; for I found that the materials needed to replenish the

portable light had perished in the mutiny of those pigs in July. My rage was unbounded, yet

my German sense forbade me to venture unprepared into an utterly black interior which might

prove the lair of some indescribable marine monster or a labyrinth of passages from whose

windings I could never extricate myself. All I could do was to turn on the waning searchlight of

the U-29, and with its aid walk up the temple steps and study the exterior carvings. The shaft

of light entered the door at an upward angle, and I peered in to see if I could glimpse

anything, but all in vain. Not even the roof was visible; and though I took a step or two inside

after testing the floor with a staff, I dared not go farther. Moreover, for the first time in my life I

experienced the emotion of dread. I began to realise how some of poor Klenze‘s moods had

arisen, for as the temple drew me more and more, I feared its aqueous abysses with a blind

and mounting terror. Returning to the submarine, I turned off the lights and sat thinking in the

dark. Electricity must now be saved for emergencies.

Saturday the 18th I spent in total darkness, tormented by thoughts and memories that

threatened to overcome my German will. Klenze had gone mad and perished before reaching

this sinister remnant of a past unwholesomely remote, and had advised me to go with him.

Was, indeed, Fate preserving my reason only to draw me irresistibly to an end more horrible

and unthinkable than any man has dreamed of? Clearly, my nerves were sorely taxed, and I

must cast off these impressions of weaker men.

I could not sleep Saturday night, and turned on the lights regardless of the future. It was

annoying that the electricity should not last out the air and provisions. I revived my thoughts of

euthanasia, and examined my automatic pistol. Toward morning I must have dropped asleep

with the lights on, for I awoke in darkness yesterday afternoon to find the batteries dead. I

struck several matches in succession, and desperately regretted the improvidence which had

caused us long ago to use up the few candles we carried.

After the fading of the last match I dared to waste, I sat very quietly without a light. As I

considered the inevitable end my mind ran over preceding events, and developed a hitherto

dormant impression which would have caused a weaker and more superstitious man to

shudder. The head of the radiant god in the sculptures on the rock temple is the same as that

carven bit of ivory which the dead sailor brought from the sea and which poor Klenze carried

back into the sea.

I was a little dazed by this coincidence, but did not become terrified. It is only the inferior

thinker who hastens to explain the singular and the complex by the primitive short cut of

supernaturalism. The coincidence was strange, but I was too sound a reasoner to connect

circumstances which admit of no logical connexion, or to associate in any uncanny fashion

the disastrous events which had led from the Victory affair to my present plight. Feeling the

need of more rest, I took a sedative and secured some more sleep. My nervous condition was

reflected in my dreams, for I seemed to hear the cries of drowning persons, and to see dead

faces pressing against the portholes of the boat. And among the dead faces was the living,

mocking face of the youth with the ivory image.

I must be careful how I record my awaking today, for I am unstrung, and much hallucination is

necessarily mixed with fact. Psychologically my case is most interesting, and I regret that it

cannot be observed scientifically by a competent German authority. Upon opening my eyes

my first sensation was an overmastering desire to visit the rock temple; a desire which grew

every instant, yet which I automatically sought to resist through some emotion of fear which

operated in the reverse direction. Next there came to me the impression of light amidst the

darkness of dead batteries, and I seemed to see a sort of phosphorescent glow in the water

through the porthole which opened toward the temple. This aroused my curiosity, for I knew of

no deep-sea organism capable of emitting such luminosity. But before I could investigate

there came a third impression which because of its irrationality caused me to doubt the

objectivity of anything my senses might record. It was an aural delusion; a sensation of

rhythmic, melodic sound as of some wild yet beautiful chant or choral hymn, coming from the

outside through the absolutely sound-proof hull of the U-29. Convinced of my psychological

and nervous abnormality, I lighted some matches and poured a stiff dose of sodium bromide

solution, which seemed to calm me to the extent of dispelling the illusion of sound. But the

phosphorescence remained, and I had difficulty in repressing a childish impulse to go to the

porthole and seek its source. It was horribly realistic, and I could soon distinguish by its aid

the familiar objects around me, as well as the empty sodium bromide glass of which I had had

no former visual impression in its present location. The last circumstance made me ponder,

and I crossed the room and touched the glass. It was indeed in the place where I had seemed

to see it. Now I knew that the light was either real or part of an hallucination so fixed and

consistent that I could not hope to dispel it, so abandoning all resistance I ascended to the

conning tower to look for the luminous agency. Might it not actually be another U-boat,

offering possibilities of rescue?

It is well that the reader accept nothing which follows as objective truth, for since the events

transcend natural law, they are necessarily the subjective and unreal creations of my

overtaxed mind. When I attained the conning tower I found the sea in general far less

luminous than I had expected. There was no animal or vegetable phosphorescence about,

and the city that sloped down to the river was invisible in blackness. What I did see was not

spectacular, not grotesque or terrifying, yet it removed my last vestige of trust in my

consciousness. For the door and windows of the undersea temple hewn from the rocky hill

were vividly aglow with a flickering radiance, as from a mighty altar-flame far within.

Later incidents are chaotic. As I stared at the uncannily lighted door and windows, I became

subject to the most extravagant visions—visions so extravagant that I cannot even relate

them. I fancied that I discerned objects in the temple—objects both stationary and moving—

and seemed to hear again the unreal chant that had floated to me when first I awaked. And

over all rose thoughts and fears which centred in the youth from the sea and the ivory image

whose carving was duplicated on the frieze and columns of the temple before me. I thought of

poor Klenze, and wondered where his body rested with the image he had carried back into

the sea. He had warned me of something, and I had not heeded—but he was a soft-headed

Rhinelander who went mad at troubles a Prussian could bear with ease.

The rest is very simple. My impulse to visit and enter the temple has now become an

inexplicable and imperious command which ultimately cannot be denied. My own German will

no longer controls my acts, and volition is henceforward possible only in minor matters. Such

madness it was which drove Klenze to his death, bareheaded and unprotected in the ocean;

but I am a Prussian and a man of sense, and will use to the last what little will I have. When

first I saw that I must go, I prepared my diving suit, helmet, and air regenerator for instant

donning; and immediately commenced to write this hurried chronicle in the hope that it may

some day reach the world. I shall seal the manuscript in a bottle and entrust it to the sea as I

leave the U-29 forever.

I have no fear, not even from the prophecies of the madman Klenze. What I have seen cannot

be true, and I know that this madness of my own will at most lead only to suffocation when my

air is gone. The light in the temple is a sheer delusion, and I shall die calmly, like a German, in

the black and forgotten depths. This daemoniac laughter which I hear as I write comes only

from my own weakening brain. So I will carefully don my diving suit and walk boldly up the

steps into that primal shrine; that silent secret of unfathomed waters and uncounted years.

Return to Table of Contents

Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family

(1920)

Life is a hideous thing, and from the background behind what we know of it peer daemoniacal

hints of truth which make it sometimes a thousandfold more hideous. Science, already

oppressive with its shocking revelations, will perhaps be the ultimate exterminator of our

human species—if separate species we be—for its reserve of unguessed horrors could never

be borne by mortal brains if loosed upon the world. If we knew what we are, we should do as

Sir Arthur Jermyn did; and Arthur Jermyn soaked himself in oil and set fire to his clothing one

night. No one placed the charred fragments in an urn or set a memorial to him who had been;

for certain papers and a certain boxed object were found, which made men wish to forget.

Some who knew him do not admit that he ever existed.

Arthur Jermyn went out on the moor and burned himself after seeing the boxed object which

had come from Africa. It was this object, and not his peculiar personal appearance, which

made him end his life. Many would have disliked to live if possessed of the peculiar features

of Arthur Jermyn, but he had been a poet and scholar and had not minded. Learning was in

his blood, for his great-grandfather, Sir Robert Jermyn, Bt., had been an anthropologist of

note, whilst his great-great-great-grandfather, Sir Wade Jermyn, was one of the earliest

explorers of the Congo region, and had written eruditely of its tribes, animals, and supposed

antiquities. Indeed, old Sir Wade had possessed an intellectual zeal amounting almost to a

mania; his bizarre conjectures on a prehistoric white Congolese civilisation earning him much

ridicule when his book, Observations on the Several Parts of Africa, was published. In 1765

this fearless explorer had been placed in a madhouse at Huntingdon.

Madness was in all the Jermyns, and people were glad there were not many of them. The line

put forth no branches, and Arthur was the last of it. If he had not been, one cannot say what

he would have done when the object came. The Jermyns never seemed to look quite right—

something was amiss, though Arthur was the worst, and the old family portraits in Jermyn

House shewed fine faces enough before Sir Wade‘s time. Certainly, the madness began with

Sir Wade, whose wild stories of Africa were at once the delight and terror of his few friends. It

shewed in his collection of trophies and specimens, which were not such as a normal man

would accumulate and preserve, and appeared strikingly in the Oriental seclusion in which he

kept his wife. The latter, he had said, was the daughter of a Portuguese trader whom he had

met in Africa; and did not like English ways. She, with an infant son born in Africa, had

accompanied him back for the second and longest of his trips, and had gone with him on the

third and last, never returning. No one had ever seen her closely, not even the servants; for

her disposition had been violent and singular. During her brief stay at Jermyn House she

occupied a remote wing, and was waited on by her husband alone. Sir Wade was, indeed,

most peculiar in his solicitude for his family; for when he returned to Africa he would permit no

one to care for his young son save a loathsome black woman from Guinea. Upon coming

back, after the death of Lady Jermyn, he himself assumed complete care of the boy.

But it was the talk of Sir Wade, especially when in his cups, which chiefly led his friends to

deem him mad. In a rational age like the eighteenth century it was unwise for a man of

learning to talk about wild sights and strange scenes under a Congo moon; of the gigantic

walls and pillars of a forgotten city, crumbling and vine-grown, and of damp, silent, stone

steps leading interminably down into the darkness of abysmal treasure-vaults and

inconceivable catacombs. Especially was it unwise to rave of the living things that might haunt

such a place; of creatures half of the jungle and half of the impiously aged city—fabulous

creatures which even a Pliny might describe with scepticism; things that might have sprung

up after the great apes had overrun the dying city with the walls and the pillars, the vaults and

the weird carvings. Yet after he came home for the last time Sir Wade would speak of such

matters with a shudderingly uncanny zest, mostly after his third glass at the Knight‘s Head;

boasting of what he had found in the jungle and of how he had dwelt among terrible ruins

known only to him. And finally he had spoken of the living things in such a manner that he

was taken to the madhouse. He had shewn little regret when shut into the barred room at

Huntingdon, for his mind moved curiously. Ever since his son had commenced to grow out of

infancy he had liked his home less and less, till at last he had seemed to dread it. The

Knight‘s Head had been his headquarters, and when he was confined he expressed some

vague gratitude as if for protection. Three years later he died.

Wade Jermyn‘s son Philip was a highly peculiar person. Despite a strong physical

resemblance to his father, his appearance and conduct were in many particulars so coarse

that he was universally shunned. Though he did not inherit the madness which was feared by

some, he was densely stupid and given to brief periods of uncontrollable violence. In frame he

was small, but intensely powerful, and was of incredible agility. Twelve years after succeeding

to his title he married the daughter of his gamekeeper, a person said to be of gypsy

extraction, but before his son was born joined the navy as a common sailor, completing the

general disgust which his habits and mesalliance had begun. After the close of the American

war he was heard of as a sailor on a merchantman in the African trade, having a kind of

reputation for feats of strength and climbing, but finally disappearing one night as his ship lay

off the Congo coast.

In the son of Sir Philip Jermyn the now accepted family peculiarity took a strange and fatal

turn. Tall and fairly handsome, with a sort of weird Eastern grace despite certain slight oddities

of proportion, Robert Jermyn began life as a scholar and investigator. It was he who first

studied scientifically the vast collection of relics which his mad grandfather had brought from

Africa, and who made the family name as celebrated in ethnology as in exploration. In 1815

Sir Robert married a daughter of the seventh Viscount Brightholme and was subsequently

blessed with three children, the eldest and youngest of whom were never publicly seen on

account of deformities in mind and body. Saddened by these family misfortunes, the scientist

sought relief in work, and made two long expeditions in the interior of Africa. In 1849 his

second son, Nevil, a singularly repellent person who seemed to combine the surliness of

Philip Jermyn with the hauteur of the Brightholmes, ran away with a vulgar dancer, but was

pardoned upon his return in the following year. He came back to Jermyn House a widower

with an infant son, Alfred, who was one day to be the father of Arthur Jermyn.

Friends said that it was this series of griefs which unhinged the mind of Sir Robert Jermyn, yet

it was probably merely a bit of African folklore which caused the disaster. The elderly scholar

had been collecting legends of the Onga tribes near the field of his grandfather‘s and his own

explorations, hoping in some way to account for Sir Wade‘s wild tales of a lost city peopled by

strange hybrid creatures. A certain consistency in the strange papers of his ancestor

suggested that the madman‘s imagination might have been stimulated by native myths. On

October 19, 1852, the explorer Samuel Seaton called at Jermyn House with a manuscript of

notes collected among the Ongas, believing that certain legends of a grey city of white apes

ruled by a white god might prove valuable to the ethnologist. In his conversation he probably

supplied many additional details; the nature of which will never be known, since a hideous

series of tragedies suddenly burst into being. When Sir Robert Jermyn emerged from his

library he left behind the strangled corpse of the explorer, and before he could be restrained,

had put an end to all three of his children; the two who were never seen, and the son who had

run away. Nevil Jermyn died in the successful defence of his own two-year-old son, who had

apparently been included in the old man‘s madly murderous scheme. Sir Robert himself, after

repeated attempts at suicide and a stubborn refusal to utter any articulate sound, died of

apoplexy in the second year of his confinement.

Sir Alfred Jermyn was a baronet before his fourth birthday, but his tastes never matched his

title. At twenty he had joined a band of music-hall performers, and at thirty-six had deserted

his wife and child to travel with an itinerant American circus. His end was very revolting.

Among the animals in the exhibition with which he travelled was a huge bull gorilla of lighter

colour than the average; a surprisingly tractable beast of much popularity with the performers.

With this gorilla Alfred Jermyn was singularly fascinated, and on many occasions the two

would eye each other for long periods through the intervening bars. Eventually Jermyn asked

and obtained permission to train the animal, astonishing audiences and fellow-performers

alike with his success. One morning in Chicago, as the gorilla and Alfred Jermyn were

rehearsing an exceedingly clever boxing match, the former delivered a blow of more than

usual force, hurting both the body and dignity of the amateur trainer. Of what followed,

members of ―The Greatest Show on Earth‖ do not like to speak. They did not expect to hear

Sir Alfred Jermyn emit a shrill, inhuman scream, or to see him seize his clumsy antagonist

with both hands, dash it to the floor of the cage, and bite fiendishly at its hairy throat. The

gorilla was off its guard, but not for long, and before anything could be done by the regular

trainer the body which had belonged to a baronet was past recognition.

II.

Arthur Jermyn was the son of Sir Alfred Jermyn and a music-hall singer of unknown origin.

When the husband and father deserted his family, the mother took the child to Jermyn House;

where there was none left to object to her presence. She was not without notions of what a

nobleman‘s dignity should be, and saw to it that her son received the best education which

limited money could provide. The family resources were now sadly slender, and Jermyn

House had fallen into woeful disrepair, but young Arthur loved the old edifice and all its

contents. He was not like any other Jermyn who had ever lived, for he was a poet and a

dreamer. Some of the neighbouring families who had heard tales of old Sir Wade Jermyn‘s

unseen Portuguese wife declared that her Latin blood must be shewing itself; but most

persons merely sneered at his sensitiveness to beauty, attributing it to his music-hall mother,

who was socially unrecognised. The poetic delicacy of Arthur Jermyn was the more

remarkable because of his uncouth personal appearance. Most of the Jermyns had

possessed a subtly odd and repellent cast, but Arthur‘s case was very striking. It is hard to

say just what he resembled, but his expression, his facial angle, and the length of his arms

gave a thrill of repulsion to those who met him for the first time.

It was the mind and character of Arthur Jermyn which atoned for his aspect. Gifted and

learned, he took highest honours at Oxford and seemed likely to redeem the intellectual fame

of his family. Though of poetic rather than scientific temperament, he planned to continue the

work of his forefathers in African ethnology and antiquities, utilising the truly wonderful though

strange collection of Sir Wade. With his fanciful mind he thought often of the prehistoric

civilisation in which the mad explorer had so implicitly believed, and would weave tale after

tale about the silent jungle city mentioned in the latter‘s wilder notes and paragraphs. For the

nebulous utterances concerning a nameless, unsuspected race of jungle hybrids he had a

peculiar feeling of mingled terror and attraction; speculating on the possible basis of such a

fancy, and seeking to obtain light among the more recent data gleaned by his great-

grandfather and Samuel Seaton amongst the Ongas.

In 1911, after the death of his mother, Sir Arthur Jermyn determined to pursue his

investigations to the utmost extent. Selling a portion of his estate to obtain the requisite

money, he outfitted an expedition and sailed for the Congo. Arranging with the Belgian

authorities for a party of guides, he spent a year in the Onga and Kaliri country, finding data

beyond the highest of his expectations. Among the Kaliris was an aged chief called Mwanu,

who possessed not only a highly retentive memory, but a singular degree of intelligence and

interest in old legends. This ancient confirmed every tale which Jermyn had heard, adding his

own account of the stone city and the white apes as it had been told to him.

According to Mwanu, the grey city and the hybrid creatures were no more, having been

annihilated by the warlike N‘bangus many years ago. This tribe, after destroying most of the

edifices and killing the live beings, had carried off the stuffed goddess which had been the

object of their quest; the white ape-goddess which the strange beings worshipped, and which

was held by Congo tradition to be the form of one who had reigned as a princess among

those beings. Just what the white ape-like creatures could have been, Mwanu had no idea,

but he thought they were the builders of the ruined city. Jermyn could form no conjecture, but

by close questioning obtained a very picturesque legend of the stuffed goddess.

The ape-princess, it was said, became the consort of a great white god who had come out of

the West. For a long time they had reigned over the city together, but when they had a son all

three went away. Later the god and the princess had returned, and upon the death of the

princess her divine husband had mummified the body and enshrined it in a vast house of

stone, where it was worshipped. Then he had departed alone. The legend here seemed to

present three variants. According to one story nothing further happened save that the stuffed

goddess became a symbol of supremacy for whatever tribe might possess it. It was for this

reason that the N‘bangus carried it off. A second story told of the god‘s return and death at the

feet of his enshrined wife. A third told of the return of the son, grown to manhood—or apehood

or godhood, as the case might be—yet unconscious of his identity. Surely the imaginative

blacks had made the most of whatever events might lie behind the extravagant legendry.

Of the reality of the jungle city described by old Sir Wade, Arthur Jermyn had no further doubt;

and was hardly astonished when early in 1912 he came upon what was left of it. Its size must

have been exaggerated, yet the stones lying about proved that it was no mere negro village.

Unfortunately no carvings could be found, and the small size of the expedition prevented

operations toward clearing the one visible passageway that seemed to lead down into the

system of vaults which Sir Wade had mentioned. The white apes and the stuffed goddess

were discussed with all the native chiefs of the region, but it remained for a European to

improve on the data offered by old Mwanu. M. Verhaeren, Belgian agent at a trading-post on

the Congo, believed that he could not only locate but obtain the stuffed goddess, of which he

had vaguely heard; since the once mighty N‘bangus were now the submissive servants of

King Albert‘s government, and with but little persuasion could be induced to part with the

gruesome deity they had carried off. When Jermyn sailed for England, therefore, it was with

the exultant probability that he would within a few months receive a priceless ethnological

relic confirming the wildest of his great-great-great-grandfather‘s narratives—that is, the

wildest which he had ever heard. Countrymen near Jermyn House had perhaps heard wilder

tales handed down from ancestors who had listened to Sir Wade around the tables of the

Knight‘s Head.

Arthur Jermyn waited very patiently for the expected box from M. Verhaeren, meanwhile

studying with increased diligence the manuscripts left by his mad ancestor. He began to feel

closely akin to Sir Wade, and to seek relics of the latter‘s personal life in England as well as of

his African exploits. Oral accounts of the mysterious and secluded wife had been numerous,

but no tangible relic of her stay at Jermyn House remained. Jermyn wondered what

circumstance had prompted or permitted such an effacement, and decided that the husband‘s

insanity was the prime cause. His great-great-great-grandmother, he recalled, was said to

have been the daughter of a Portuguese trader in Africa. No doubt her practical heritage and

superficial knowledge of the Dark Continent had caused her to flout Sir Wade‘s talk of the

interior, a thing which such a man would not be likely to forgive. She had died in Africa,

perhaps dragged thither by a husband determined to prove what he had told. But as Jermyn

indulged in these reflections he could not but smile at their futility, a century and a half after

the death of both of his strange progenitors.

In June, 1913, a letter arrived from M. Verhaeren, telling of the finding of the stuffed goddess.

It was, the Belgian averred, a most extraordinary object; an object quite beyond the power of

a layman to classify. Whether it was human or simian only a scientist could determine, and

the process of determination would be greatly hampered by its imperfect condition. Time and

the Congo climate are not kind to mummies; especially when their preparation is as

amateurish as seemed to be the case here. Around the creature‘s neck had been found a

golden chain bearing an empty locket on which were armorial designs; no doubt some

hapless traveller‘s keepsake, taken by the N‘bangus and hung upon the goddess as a charm.

In commenting on the contour of the mummy‘s face, M. Verhaeren suggested a whimsical

comparison; or rather, expressed a humorous wonder just how it would strike his

correspondent, but was too much interested scientifically to waste many words in levity. The

stuffed goddess, he wrote, would arrive duly packed about a month after receipt of the letter.

The boxed object was delivered at Jermyn House on the afternoon of August 3, 1913, being

conveyed immediately to the large chamber which housed the collection of African specimens

as arranged by Sir Robert and Arthur. What ensued can best be gathered from the tales of

servants and from things and papers later examined. Of the various tales that of aged

Soames, the family butler, is most ample and coherent. According to this trustworthy man, Sir

Arthur Jermyn dismissed everyone from the room before opening the box, though the instant

sound of hammer and chisel shewed that he did not delay the operation. Nothing was heard

for some time; just how long Soames cannot exactly estimate; but it was certainly less than a

quarter of an hour later that the horrible scream, undoubtedly in Jermyn‘s voice, was heard.

Immediately afterward Jermyn emerged from the room, rushing frantically toward the front of

the house as if pursued by some hideous enemy. The expression on his face, a face ghastly

enough in repose, was beyond description. When near the front door he seemed to think of

something, and turned back in his flight, finally disappearing down the stairs to the cellar. The

servants were utterly dumbfounded, and watched at the head of the stairs, but their master

did not return. A smell of oil was all that came up from the regions below. After dark a rattling

was heard at the door leading from the cellar into the courtyard; and a stable-boy saw Arthur

Jermyn, glistening from head to foot with oil and redolent of that fluid, steal furtively out and

vanish on the black moor surrounding the house. Then, in an exaltation of supreme horror,

everyone saw the end. A spark appeared on the moor, a flame arose, and a pillar of human

fire reached to the heavens. The house of Jermyn no longer existed.

The reason why Arthur Jermyn‘s charred fragments were not collected and buried lies in what

was found afterward, principally the thing in the box. The stuffed goddess was a nauseous

sight, withered and eaten away, but it was clearly a mummified white ape of some unknown

species, less hairy than any recorded variety, and infinitely nearer mankind—quite shockingly

so. Detailed description would be rather unpleasant, but two salient particulars must be told,

for they fit in revoltingly with certain notes of Sir Wade Jermyn‘s African expeditions and with

the Congolese legends of the white god and the ape-princess. The two particulars in question

are these: the arms on the golden locket about the creature‘s neck were the Jermyn arms,

and the jocose suggestion of M. Verhaeren about a certain resemblance as connected with

the shrivelled face applied with vivid, ghastly, and unnatural horror to none other than the

sensitive Arthur Jermyn, great-great-great-grandson of Sir Wade Jermyn and an unknown

wife. Members of the Royal Anthropological Institute burned the thing and threw the locket

into a well, and some of them do not admit that Arthur Jermyn ever existed.

Return to Table of Contents

The Street

(1920)

There be those who say that things and places have souls, and there be those who say they

have not; I dare not say, myself, but I will tell of The Street.

Men of strength and honour fashioned that Street; good, valiant men of our blood who had

come from the Blessed Isles across the sea. At first it was but a path trodden by bearers of

water from the woodland spring to the cluster of houses by the beach. Then, as more men

came to the growing cluster of houses and looked about for places to dwell, they built cabins

along the north side; cabins of stout oaken logs with masonry on the side toward the forest,

for many Indians lurked there with fire-arrows. And in a few years more, men built cabins on

the south side of The Street.

Up and down The Street walked grave men in conical hats, who most of the time carried

muskets or fowling pieces. And there were also their bonneted wives and sober children. In

the evening these men with their wives and children would sit about gigantic hearths and read

and speak. Very simple were the things of which they read and spoke, yet things which gave

them courage and goodness and helped them by day to subdue the forest and till the fields.

And the children would listen, and learn of the laws and deeds of old, and of that dear

England which they had never seen, or could not remember.

There was war, and thereafter no more Indians troubled The Street. The men, busy with

labour, waxed prosperous and as happy as they knew how to be. And the children grew up

comfortably, and more families came from the Mother Land to dwell on The Street. And the

children‘s children, and the newcomers‘ children, grew up. The town was now a city, and one

by one the cabins gave place to houses; simple, beautiful houses of brick and wood, with

stone steps and iron railings and fanlights over the doors. No flimsy creations were these

houses, for they were made to serve many a generation. Within there were carven mantels

and graceful stairs, and sensible, pleasing furniture, china, and silver, brought from the

Mother Land.

So The Street drank in the dreams of a young people, and rejoiced as its dwellers became

more graceful and happy. Where once had been only strength and honour, taste and learning

now abode as well. Books and paintings and music came to the houses, and the young men

went to the university which rose above the plain to the north. In the place of conical hats and

muskets there were three-cornered hats and small-swords, and lace and snowy periwigs. And

there were cobblestones over which clattered many a blooded horse and rumbled many a

gilded coach; and brick sidewalks with horse blocks and hitching-posts.

There were in that Street many trees; elms and oaks and maples of dignity; so that in the

summer the scene was all soft verdure and twittering bird-song. And behind the houses were

walled rose-gardens with hedged paths and sundials, where at evening the moon and stars

would shine bewitchingly while fragrant blossoms glistened with dew.

So The Street dreamed on, past wars, calamities, and changes. Once most of the young men

went away, and some never came back. That was when they furled the Old Flag and put up a

new Banner of Stripes and Stars. But though men talked of great changes, The Street felt

them not; for its folk were still the same, speaking of the old familiar things in the old familiar

accents. And the trees still sheltered singing birds, and at evening the moon and stars looked

down upon dewy blossoms in the walled rose-gardens.

In time there were no more swords, three-cornered hats, or periwigs in The Street. How

strange seemed the denizens with their walking-sticks, tall beavers, and cropped heads! New

sounds came from the distance—first strange puffings and shrieks from the river a mile away,

and then, many years later, strange puffings and shrieks and rumblings from other directions.

The air was not quite so pure as before, but the spirit of the place had not changed. The blood

and soul of the people were as the blood and soul of their ancestors who had fashioned The

Street. Nor did the spirit change when they tore open the earth to lay down strange pipes, or

when they set up tall posts bearing weird wires. There was so much ancient lore in that Street,

that the past could not easily be forgotten.

Then came days of evil, when many who had known The Street of old knew it no more; and

many knew it, who had not known it before. And those who came were never as those who

went away; for their accents were coarse and strident, and their mien and faces unpleasing.

Their thoughts, too, fought with the wise, just spirit of The Street, so that The street pined

silently as its houses fell into decay, and its trees died one by one, and its rose-gardens grew

rank with weeds and waste. But it felt a stir of pride one day when again marched forth young

men, some of whom never came back. These young men were clad in blue.

With the years worse fortune came to The Street. Its trees were all gone now, and its rose-

gardens were displaced by the backs of cheap, ugly new buildings on parallel streets. Yet the

houses remained, despite the ravages of the years and the storms and worms, for they had

been made to serve many a generation. New kinds of faces appeared in The Street; swarthy,

sinister faces with furtive eyes and odd features, whose owners spoke unfamiliar words and

placed signs in known and unknown characters upon most of the musty houses. Push-carts

crowded the gutters. A sordid, undefinable stench settled over the place, and the ancient spirit

slept.

Great excitement once came to The Street. War and revolution were raging across the seas;

a dynasty had collapsed, and its degenerate subjects were flocking with dubious intent to the

Western Land. Many of these took lodgings in the battered houses that had once known the

songs of birds and the scent of roses. Then the Western Land itself awoke, and joined the

Mother Land in her titanic struggle for civilisation. Over the cities once more floated the Old

Flag, companioned by the New Flag and by a plainer yet glorious Tri-colour. But not many

flags floated over The Street, for therein brooded only fear and hatred and ignorance. Again

young men went forth, but not quite as did the young men of those other days. Something

was lacking. And the sons of those young men of other days, who did indeed go forth in olive-

drab with the true spirit of their ancestors, went from distant places and knew not The Street

and its ancient spirit.

Over the seas there was a great victory, and in triumph most of the young men returned.

Those who had lacked something lacked it no longer, yet did fear and hatred and ignorance

still brood over The Street; for many had stayed behind, and many strangers had come from

distant places to the ancient houses. And the young men who had returned dwelt there no

longer. Swarthy and sinister were most of the strangers, yet among them one might find a few

faces like those who fashioned The Street and moulded its spirit. Like and yet unlike, for there

was in the eyes of all a weird, unhealthy glitter as of greed, ambition, vindictiveness, or

misguided zeal. Unrest and treason were abroad amongst an evil few who plotted to strike the

Western Land its death-blow, that they might mount to power over its ruins; even as assassins

had mounted in that unhappy, frozen land from whence most of them had come. And the

heart of that plotting was in The Street, whose crumbling houses teemed with alien makers of

discord and echoed with the plans and speeches of those who yearned for the appointed day

of blood, flame, and crime.

Of the various odd assemblages in The Street, the law said much but could prove little. With

great diligence did men of hidden badges linger and listen about such places as Petrovitch‘s

Bakery, the squalid Rifkin School of Modern Economics, the Circle Social Club, and the

Liberty Café. There congregated sinister men in great numbers, yet always was their speech

guarded or in a foreign tongue. And still the old houses stood, with their forgotten lore of

nobler, departed centuries; of sturdy colonial tenants and dewy rose-gardens in the moonlight.

Sometimes a lone poet or traveller would come to view them, and would try to picture them in

their vanished glory; yet of such travellers and poets there were not many.

The rumour now spread widely that these houses contained the leaders of a vast band of

terrorists, who on a designated day were to launch an orgy of slaughter for the extermination

of America and of all the fine old traditions which The Street had loved. Handbills and papers

fluttered about filthy gutters; handbills and papers printed in many tongues and in many

characters, yet all bearing messages of crime and rebellion. In these writings the people were

urged to tear down the laws and virtues that our fathers had exalted; to stamp out the soul of

the old America—the soul that was bequeathed through a thousand and a half years of Anglo-

Saxon freedom, justice, and moderation. It was said that the swart men who dwelt in The

Street and congregated in its rotting edifices were the brains of a hideous revolution; that at

their word of command many millions of brainless, besotted beasts would stretch forth their

noisome talons from the slums of a thousand cities, burning, slaying, and destroying till the

land of our fathers should be no more. All this was said and repeated, and many looked

forward in dread to the fourth day of July, about which the strange writings hinted much; yet

could nothing be found to place the guilt. None could tell just whose arrest might cut off the

damnable plotting at its source. Many times came bands of blue-coated police to search the

shaky houses, though at last they ceased to come; for they too had grown tired of law and

order, and had abandoned all the city to its fate. Then men in olive-drab came, bearing

muskets; till it seemed as if in its sad sleep The Street must have some haunting dreams of

those other days, when musket-bearing men in conical hats walked along it from the

woodland spring to the cluster of houses by the beach. Yet could no act be performed to

check the impending cataclysm; for the swart, sinister men were old in cunning.

So The Street slept uneasily on, till one night there gathered in Petrovitch‘s Bakery and the

Rifkin School of Modern Economics, and the Circle Social Club, and Liberty Café, and in

other places as well, vast hordes of men whose eyes were big with horrible triumph and

expectation. Over hidden wires strange messages travelled, and much was said of still

stranger messages yet to travel; but most of this was not guessed till afterward,when the

Western Land was safe from the peril. The men in olive-drab could not tell what was

happening, or what they ought to do; for the swart, sinister men were skilled in subtlety and

concealment.

And yet the men in olive-drab will always remember that night, and will speak of The Street as

they tell of it to their grandchildren; for many of them were sent there toward morning on a

mission unlike that which they had expected. It was known that this nest of anarchy was old,

and that the houses were tottering from the ravages of the years and the storms and the

worms; yet was the happening of that summer night a surprise because of its very queer

uniformity. It was, indeed, an exceedingly singular happening; though after all a simple one.

For without warning, in one of the small hours beyond midnight, all the ravages of the years

and the storms and the worms came to a tremendous climax; and after the crash there was

Celephaïs

(1920)

In a dream Kuranes saw the city in the valley, and the sea-coast beyond, and the snowy peak

overlooking the sea, and the gaily painted galleys that sail out of the harbour toward the

distant regions where the sea meets the sky. In a dream it was also that he came by his name

of Kuranes, for when awake he was called by another name. Perhaps it was natural for him to

dream a new name; for he was the last of his family, and alone among the indifferent millions

of London, so there were not many to speak to him and remind him who he had been. His

money and lands were gone, and he did not care for the ways of people about him, but

preferred to dream and write of his dreams. What he wrote was laughed at by those to whom

he shewed it, so that after a time he kept his writings to himself, and finally ceased to write.

The more he withdrew from the world about him, the more wonderful became his dreams; and

it would have been quite futile to try to describe them on paper. Kuranes was not modern, and

did not think like others who wrote. Whilst they strove to strip from life its embroidered robes

of myth, and to shew in naked ugliness the foul thing that is reality, Kuranes sought for beauty

alone. When truth and experience failed to reveal it, he sought it in fancy and illusion, and

found it on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams.

There are not many persons who know what wonders are opened to them in the stories and

visions of their youth; for when as children we listen and dream, we think but half-formed

thoughts, and when as men we try to remember, we are dulled and prosaic with the poison of

life. But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and

gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of

plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of

heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and then we know

that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours

before we were wise and unhappy.

Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of childhood. He had been dreaming of the

house where he was born; the great stone house covered with ivy, where thirteen generations

of his ancestors had lived, and where he had hoped to die. It was moonlight, and he had

stolen out into the fragrant summer night, through the gardens, down the terraces, past the

great oaks of the park, and along the long white road to the village. The village seemed very

old, eaten away at the edge like the moon which had commenced to wane, and Kuranes

wondered whether the peaked roofs of the small houses hid sleep or death. In the streets

were spears of long grass, and the window-panes on either side were either broken or filmily

staring. Kuranes had not lingered, but had plodded on as though summoned toward some

goal. He dared not disobey the summons for fear it might prove an illusion like the urges and

aspirations of waking life, which do not lead to any goal. Then he had been drawn down a

lane that led off from the village street toward the channel cliffs, and had come to the end of

things—to the precipice and the abyss where all the village and all the world fell abruptly into

the unechoing emptiness of infinity, and where even the sky ahead was empty and unlit by

the crumbling moon and the peering stars. Faith had urged him on, over the precipice and

into the gulf, where he had floated down, down, down; past dark, shapeless, undreamed

dreams, faintly glowing spheres that may have been partly dreamed dreams, and laughing

winged things that seemed to mock the dreamers of all the worlds. Then a rift seemed to open

in the darkness before him, and he saw the city of the valley, glistening radiantly far, far below,

with a background of sea and sky, and a snow-capped mountain near the shore.

Kuranes had awaked the very moment he beheld the city, yet he knew from his brief glance

that it was none other than Celephaïs, in the Valley of Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills,

where his spirit had dwelt all the eternity of an hour one summer afternoon very long ago,

when he had slipt away from his nurse and let the warm sea-breeze lull him to sleep as he

watched the clouds from the cliff near the village. He had protested then, when they had

found him, waked him, and carried him home, for just as he was aroused he had been about

to sail in a golden galley for those alluring regions where the sea meets the sky. And now he

was equally resentful of awaking, for he had found his fabulous city after forty weary years.

But three nights afterward Kuranes came again to Celephaïs. As before, he dreamed first of

the village that was asleep or dead, and of the abyss down which one must float silently; then

the rift appeared again, and he beheld the glittering minarets of the city, and saw the graceful

galleys riding at anchor in the blue harbour, and watched the gingko trees of Mount Aran

swaying in the sea-breeze. But this time he was not snatched away, and like a winged being

settled gradually over a grassy hillside till finally his feet rested gently on the turf. He had

indeed come back to the Valley of Ooth-Nargai and the splendid city of Celephaïs.

Down the hill amid scented grasses and brilliant flowers walked Kuranes, over the bubbling

Naraxa on the small wooden bridge where he had carved his name so many years ago, and

through the whispering grove to the great stone bridge by the city gate. All was as of old, nor

were the marble walls discoloured, nor the polished bronze statues upon them tarnished. And

Kuranes saw that he need not tremble lest the things he knew be vanished; for even the

sentries on the ramparts were the same, and still as young as he remembered them. When

he entered the city, past the bronze gates and over the onyx pavements, the merchants and

camel-drivers greeted him as if he had never been away; and it was the same at the turquoise

temple of Nath-Horthath, where the orchid-wreathed priests told him that there is no time in

Ooth-Nargai, but only perpetual youth. Then Kuranes walked through the Street of Pillars to

the seaward wall, where gathered the traders and sailors, and strange men from the regions

where the sea meets the sky. There he stayed long, gazing out over the bright harbour where

the ripples sparkled beneath an unknown sun, and where rode lightly the galleys from far

places over the water. And he gazed also upon Mount Aran rising regally from the shore, its

lower slopes green with swaying trees and its white summit touching the sky.

More than ever Kuranes wished to sail in a galley to the far places of which he had heard so

many strange tales, and he sought again the captain who had agreed to carry him so long

ago. He found the man, Athib, sitting on the same chest of spices he had sat upon before,

and Athib seemed not to realise that any time had passed. Then the two rowed to a galley in

the harbour, and giving orders to the oarsmen, commenced to sail out into the billowy

Cerenerian Sea that leads to the sky. For several days they glided undulatingly over the

water, till finally they came to the horizon, where the sea meets the sky. Here the galley

paused not at all, but floated easily in the blue of the sky among fleecy clouds tinted with rose.

And far beneath the keel Kuranes could see strange lands and rivers and cities of surpassing

beauty, spread indolently in the sunshine which seemed never to lessen or disappear. At

length Athib told him that their journey was near its end, and that they would soon enter the

harbour of Serannian, the pink marble city of the clouds, which is built on that ethereal coast

where the west wind flows into the sky; but as the highest of the city‘s carven towers came

into sight there was a sound somewhere in space, and Kuranes awaked in his London garret.

For many months after that Kuranes sought the marvellous city of Celephaïs and its sky-

bound galleys in vain; and though his dreams carried him to many gorgeous and unheard-of

places, no one whom he met could tell him how to find Ooth-Nargai, beyond the Tanarian

Hills. One night he went flying over dark mountains where there were faint, lone campfires at

great distances apart, and strange, shaggy herds with tinkling bells on the leaders; and in the

wildest part of this hilly country, so remote that few men could ever have seen it, he found a

hideously ancient wall or causeway of stone zigzagging along the ridges and valleys; too

gigantic ever to have risen by human hands, and of such a length that neither end of it could

be seen. Beyond that wall in the grey dawn he came to a land of quaint gardens and cherry

trees, and when the sun rose he beheld such beauty of red and white flowers, green foliage

and lawns, white paths, diamond brooks, blue lakelets, carven bridges, and red-roofed

pagodas, that he for a moment forgot Celephaïs in sheer delight. But he remembered it again

when he walked down a white path toward a red-roofed pagoda, and would have questioned

the people of that land about it, had he not found that there were no people there, but only

birds and bees and butterflies. On another night Kuranes walked up a damp stone spiral

stairway endlessly, and came to a tower window overlooking a mighty plain and river lit by the

full moon; and in the silent city that spread away from the river-bank he thought he beheld

some feature or arrangement which he had known before. He would have descended and

asked the way to Ooth-Nargai had not a fearsome aurora sputtered up from some remote

place beyond the horizon, shewing the ruin and antiquity of the city, and the stagnation of the

reedy river, and the death lying upon that land, as it had lain since King Kynaratholis came

home from his conquests to find the vengeance of the gods.

So Kuranes sought fruitlessly for the marvellous city of Celephaïs and its galleys that sail to

Serannian in the sky, meanwhile seeing many wonders and once barely escaping from the

high-priest not to be described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all

alone in a prehistoric stone monastery on the cold desert plateau of Leng. In time he grew so

impatient of the bleak intervals of day that he began buying drugs in order to increase his

periods of sleep. Hasheesh helped a great deal, and once sent him to a part of space where

form does not exist, but where glowing gases study the secrets of existence. And a violet-

coloured gas told him that this part of space was outside what he had called infinity. The gas

had not heard of planets and organisms before, but identified Kuranes merely as one from the

infinity where matter, energy, and gravitation exist. Kuranes was now very anxious to return to

minaret-studded Celephaïs, and increased his doses of drugs; but eventually he had no more

money left, and could buy no drugs. Then one summer day he was turned out of his garret,

and wandered aimlessly through the streets, drifting over a bridge to a place where the

houses grew thinner and thinner. And it was there that fulfilment came, and he met the

cortege of knights come from Celephaïs to bear him thither forever.

Handsome knights they were, astride roan horses and clad in shining armour with tabards of

cloth-of-gold curiously emblazoned. So numerous were they, that Kuranes almost mistook

them for an army, but their leader told him they were sent in his honour; since it was he who

had created Ooth-Nargai in his dreams, on which account he was now to be appointed its

chief god for evermore. Then they gave Kuranes a horse and placed him at the head of the

cavalcade, and all rode majestically through the downs of Surrey and onward toward the

region where Kuranes and his ancestors were born. It was very strange, but as the riders

went on they seemed to gallop back through Time; for whenever they passed through a

village in the twilight they saw only such houses and villages as Chaucer or men before him

might have seen, and sometimes they saw knights on horseback with small companies of

retainers. When it grew dark they travelled more swiftly, till soon they were flying uncannily as

if in the air. In the dim dawn they came upon the village which Kuranes had seen alive in his

childhood, and asleep or dead in his dreams. It was alive now, and early villagers courtesied

as the horsemen clattered down the street and turned off into the lane that ends in the abyss

of dream. Kuranes had previously entered that abyss only at night, and wondered what it

would look like by day; so he watched anxiously as the column approached its brink. Just as

they galloped up the rising ground to the precipice a golden glare came somewhere out of the

east and hid all the landscape in its effulgent draperies. The abyss was now a seething chaos

of roseate and cerulean splendour, and invisible voices sang exultantly as the knightly

entourage plunged over the edge and floated gracefully down past glittering clouds and

silvery coruscations. Endlessly down the horsemen floated, their chargers pawing the aether

as if galloping over golden sands; and then the luminous vapours spread apart to reveal a

greater brightness, the brightness of the city Celephaïs, and the sea-coast beyond, and the

snowy peak overlooking the sea, and the gaily painted galleys that sail out of the harbour

toward distant regions where the sea meets the sky.

And Kuranes reigned thereafter over Ooth-Nargai and all the neighbouring regions of dream,

and held his court alternately in Celephaïs and in the cloud-fashioned Serannian. He reigns

there still, and will reign happily forever, though below the cliffs at Innsmouth the channel tides

played mockingly with the body of a tramp who had stumbled through the half-deserted

village at dawn; played mockingly, and cast it upon the rocks by ivy-covered Trevor Towers,

where a notably fat and especially offensive millionaire brewer enjoys the purchased

atmosphere of extinct nobility.

Return to Table of Contents

From Beyond

(1920)

Horrible beyond conception was the change which had taken place in my best friend,

Crawford Tillinghast. I had not seen him since that day, two months and a half before, when

he had told me toward what goal his physical and metaphysical researches were leading;

when he had answered my awed and almost frightened remonstrances by driving me from his

laboratory and his house in a burst of fanatical rage. I had known that he now remained

mostly shut in the attic laboratory with that accursed electrical machine, eating little and

excluding even the servants, but I had not thought that a brief period of ten weeks could so

alter and disfigure any human creature. It is not pleasant to see a stout man suddenly grown

thin, and it is even worse when the baggy skin becomes yellowed or greyed, the eyes sunken,

circled, and uncannily glowing, the forehead veined and corrugated, and the hands tremulous

and twitching. And if added to this there be a repellent unkemptness; a wild disorder of dress,

a bushiness of dark hair white at the roots, and an unchecked growth of pure white beard on

a face once clean-shaven, the cumulative effect is quite shocking. But such was the aspect of

Crawford Tillinghast on the night his half-coherent message brought me to his door after my

weeks of exile; such the spectre that trembled as it admitted me, candle in hand, and glanced

furtively over its shoulder as if fearful of unseen things in the ancient, lonely house set back

from Benevolent Street.

That Crawford Tillinghast should ever have studied science and philosophy was a mistake.

These things should be left to the frigid and impersonal investigator, for they offer two equally

tragic alternatives to the man of feeling and action; despair if he fail in his quest, and terrors

unutterable and unimaginable if he succeed. Tillinghast had once been the prey of failure,

solitary and melancholy; but now I knew, with nauseating fears of my own, that he was the

prey of success. I had indeed warned him ten weeks before, when he burst forth with his tale

of what he felt himself about to discover. He had been flushed and excited then, talking in a

high and unnatural, though always pedantic, voice.

―What do we know,‖ he had said, ―of the world and the universe about us? Our means of

receiving impressions are absurdly few, and our notions of surrounding objects infinitely

narrow. We see things only as we are constructed to see them, and can gain no idea of their

absolute nature. With five feeble senses we pretend to comprehend the boundlessly complex

cosmos, yet other beings with a wider, stronger, or different range of senses might not only

see very differently the things we see, but might see and study whole worlds of matter,

energy, and life which lie close at hand yet can never be detected with the senses we have. I

have always believed that such strange, inaccessible worlds exist at our very elbows, and

now I believe I have found a way to break down the barriers. I am not joking. Within twenty-

four hours that machine near the table will generate waves acting on unrecognised sense-

organs that exist in us as atrophied or rudimentary vestiges. Those waves will open up to us

many vistas unknown to man, and several unknown to anything we consider organic life. We

shall see that at which dogs howl in the dark, and that at which cats prick up their ears after

midnight. We shall see these things, and other things which no breathing creature has yet

seen. We shall overleap time, space, and dimensions, and without bodily motion peer to the

bottom of creation.

When Tillinghast said these things I remonstrated, for I knew him well enough to be frightened

rather than amused; but he was a fanatic, and drove me from the house. Now he was no less

a fanatic, but his desire to speak had conquered his resentment, and he had written me

imperatively in a hand I could scarcely recognise. As I entered the abode of the friend so

suddenly metamorphosed to a shivering gargoyle, I became infected with the terror which

seemed stalking in all the shadows. The words and beliefs expressed ten weeks before

seemed bodied forth in the darkness beyond the small circle of candle light, and I sickened at

the hollow, altered voice of my host. I wished the servants were about, and did not like it when

he said they had all left three days previously. It seemed strange that old Gregory, at least,

should desert his master without telling as tried a friend as I. It was he who had given me all

the information I had of Tillinghast after I was repulsed in rage.

Yet I soon subordinated all my fears to my growing curiosity and fascination. Just what

Crawford Tillinghast now wished of me I could only guess, but that he had some stupendous

secret or discovery to impart, I could not doubt. Before I had protested at his unnatural

pryings into the unthinkable; now that he had evidently succeeded to some degree I almost

shared his spirit, terrible though the cost of victory appeared. Up through the dark emptiness

of the house I followed the bobbing candle in the hand of this shaking parody on man. The

electricity seemed to be turned off, and when I asked my guide he said it was for a definite

reason.

―It would be too much . . . I would not dare,‖ he continued to mutter. I especially noted his new

habit of muttering, for it was not like him to talk to himself. We entered the laboratory in the

attic, and I observed that detestable electrical machine, glowing with a sickly, sinister, violet

luminosity. It was connected with a powerful chemical battery, but seemed to be receiving no

current; for I recalled that in its experimental stage it had sputtered and purred when in action.

In reply to my question Tillinghast mumbled that this permanent glow was not electrical in any

sense that I could understand.

He now seated me near the machine, so that it was on my right, and turned a switch

somewhere below the crowning cluster of glass bulbs. The usual sputtering began, turned to

a whine, and terminated in a drone so soft as to suggest a return to silence. Meanwhile the

luminosity increased, waned again, then assumed a pale, outré colour or blend of colours

which I could neither place nor describe. Tillinghast had been watching me, and noted my

puzzled expression.

―Do you know what that is?‖ he whispered. ―That is ultra-violet.‖ He chuckled oddly at my

surprise. ―You thought ultra-violet was invisible, and so it is—but you can see that and many

other invisible things now.

―Listen to me! The waves from that thing are waking a thousand sleeping senses in us;

senses which we inherit from aeons of evolution from the state of detached electrons to the

state of organic humanity. I have seen truth, and I intend to shew it to you. Do you wonder

how it will seem? I will tell you.‖ Here Tillinghast seated himself directly opposite me, blowing

out his candle and staring hideously into my eyes. ―Your existing sense-organs—ears first, I

think—will pick up many of the impressions, for they are closely connected with the dormant

organs. Then there will be others. You have heard of the pineal gland? I laugh at the shallow

endocrinologist, fellow-dupe and fellow-parvenu of the Freudian. That gland is the great

sense-organ of organs—I have found out. It is like sight in the end, and transmits visual

pictures to the brain. If you are normal, that is the way you ought to get most of it . . . I mean

get most of the evidence from beyond.”

I looked about the immense attic room with the sloping south wall, dimly lit by rays which the

every-day eye cannot see. The far corners were all shadows, and the whole place took on a

hazy unreality which obscured its nature and invited the imagination to symbolism and

phantasm. During the interval that Tillinghast was silent I fancied myself in some vast and

incredible temple of long-dead gods; some vague edifice of innumerable black stone columns

reaching up from a floor of damp slabs to a cloudy height beyond the range of my vision. The

picture was very vivid for a while, but gradually gave way to a more horrible conception; that

of utter, absolute solitude in infinite, sightless, soundless space. There seemed to be a void,

and nothing more, and I felt a childish fear which prompted me to draw from my hip pocket

the revolver I always carried after dark since the night I was held up in East Providence. Then,

from the farthermost regions of remoteness, the sound softly glided into existence. It was

infinitely faint, subtly vibrant, and unmistakably musical, but held a quality of surpassing

wildness which made its impact feel like a delicate torture of my whole body. I felt sensations

like those one feels when accidentally scratching ground glass. Simultaneously there

developed something like a cold draught, which apparently swept past me from the direction

of the distant sound. As I waited breathlessly I perceived that both sound and wind were

increasing; the effect being to give me an odd notion of myself as tied to a pair of rails in the

path of a gigantic approaching locomotive. I began to speak to Tillinghast, and as I did so all

the unusual impressions abruptly vanished. I saw only the man, the glowing machine, and the

dim apartment. Tillinghast was grinning repulsively at the revolver which I had almost

unconsciously drawn, but from his expression I was sure he had seen and heard as much as

I, if not a great deal more. I whispered what I had experienced, and he bade me to remain as

quiet and receptive as possible.

―Don‘t move,‖ he cautioned, ―for in these rays we are able to be seen as well as to see. I told

you the servants left, but I didn‘t tell you how. It was that thick-witted housekeeper—she

turned on the lights downstairs after I had warned her not to, and the wires picked up

sympathetic vibrations. It must have been frightful—I could hear the screams up here in spite

of all I was seeing and hearing from another direction, and later it was rather awful to find

those empty heaps of clothes around the house. Mrs. Updike‘s clothes were close to the front

hall switch—that‘s how I know she did it. It got them all. But so long as we don‘t move we‘re

fairly safe. Remember we‘re dealing with a hideous world in which we are practically helpless.

. . . Keep still!”

The combined shock of the revelation and of the abrupt command gave me a kind of

paralysis, and in my terror my mind again opened to the impressions coming from what

Tillinghast called ―beyond‖. I was now in a vortex of sound and motion, with confused pictures

before my eyes. I saw the blurred outlines of the room, but from some point in space there

seemed to be pouring a seething column of unrecognisable shapes or clouds, penetrating the

solid roof at a point ahead and to the right of me. Then I glimpsed the temple-like effect again,

but this time the pillars reached up into an aërial ocean of light, which sent down one blinding

beam along the path of the cloudy column I had seen before. After that the scene was almost

wholly kaleidoscopic, and in the jumble of sights, sounds, and unidentified sense-impressions

I felt that I was about to dissolve or in some way lose the solid form. One definite flash I shall

always remember. I seemed for an instant to behold a patch of strange night sky filled with

shining, revolving spheres, and as it receded I saw that the glowing suns formed a

constellation or galaxy of settled shape; this shape being the distorted face of Crawford

Tillinghast. At another time I felt the huge animate things brushing past me and occasionally

walking or drifting through my supposedly solid body, and thought I saw Tillinghast look at

them as though his better trained senses could catch them visually. I recalled what he had

said of the pineal gland, and wondered what he saw with this preternatural eye.

Suddenly I myself became possessed of a kind of augmented sight. Over and above the

luminous and shadowy chaos arose a picture which, though vague, held the elements of

consistency and permanence. It was indeed somewhat familiar, for the unusual part was

superimposed upon the usual terrestrial scene much as a cinema view may be thrown upon

the painted curtain of a theatre. I saw the attic laboratory, the electrical machine, and the

unsightly form of Tillinghast opposite me; but of all the space unoccupied by familiar material

objects not one particle was vacant. Indescribable shapes both alive and otherwise were

mixed in disgusting disarray, and close to every known thing were whole worlds of alien,

unknown entities. It likewise seemed that all the known things entered into the composition of

other unknown things, and vice versa. Foremost among the living objects were great inky,

jellyish monstrosities which flabbily quivered in harmony with the vibrations from the machine.

They were present in loathsome profusion, and I saw to my horror that they overlapped; that

they were semi-fluid and capable of passing through one another and through what we know

as solids. These things were never still, but seemed ever floating about with some malignant

purpose. Sometimes they appeared to devour one another, the attacker launching itself at its

victim and instantaneously obliterating the latter from sight. Shudderingly I felt that I knew

what had obliterated the unfortunate servants, and could not exclude the things from my mind

as I strove to observe other properties of the newly visible world that lies unseen around us.

But Tillinghast had been watching me, and was speaking.

―You see them? You see them? You see the things that float and flop about you and through

you every moment of your life? You see the creatures that form what men call the pure air and

the blue sky? Have I not succeeded in breaking down the barrier; have I not shewn you

worlds that no other living men have seen?‖ I heard him scream through the horrible chaos,

and looked at the wild face thrust so offensively close to mine. His eyes were pits of flame,

and they glared at me with what I now saw was overwhelming hatred. The machine droned

detestably.

―You think those floundering things wiped out the servants? Fool, they are harmless! But the

servants are gone, aren‘t they? You tried to stop me; you discouraged me when I needed

every drop of encouragement I could get; you were afraid of the cosmic truth, you damned

coward, but now I‘ve got you! What swept up the servants? What made them scream so

loud? . . . Don‘t know, eh? You‘ll know soon enough! Look at me—listen to what I say—do you

suppose there are really any such things as time and magnitude? Do you fancy there are

such things as form or matter? I tell you, I have struck depths that your little brain can‘t

picture! I have seen beyond the bounds of infinity and drawn down daemons from the stars. . .

. I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness. . .

. Space belongs to me, do you hear? Things are hunting me now—the things that devour and

dissolve—but I know how to elude them. It is you they will get, as they got the servants.

Stirring, dear sir? I told you it was dangerous to move. I have saved you so far by telling you

to keep still—saved you to see more sights and to listen to me. If you had moved, they would

have been at you long ago. Don‘t worry, they won‘t hurt you. They didn‘t hurt the servants—it

was seeing that made the poor devils scream so. My pets are not pretty, for they come out of

places where aesthetic standards are—very different. Disintegration is quite painless, I assure

you—but I want you to see them. I almost saw them, but I knew how to stop. You are not

curious? I always knew you were no scientist! Trembling, eh? Trembling with anxiety to see

the ultimate things I have discovered? Why don‘t you move, then? Tired? Well, don‘t worry,

my friend, for they are coming. . . . Look! Look, curse you, look! . . . It‘s just over your left

shoulder. . . .‖

What remains to be told is very brief, and may be familiar to you from the newspaper

accounts. The police heard a shot in the old Tillinghast house and found us there—Tillinghast

dead and me unconscious. They arrested me because the revolver was in my hand, but

released me in three hours, after they found it was apoplexy which had finished Tillinghast

and saw that my shot had been directed at the noxious machine which now lay hopelessly

shattered on the laboratory floor. I did not tell very much of what I had seen, for I feared the

coroner would be sceptical; but from the evasive outline I did give, the doctor told me that I

had undoubtedly been hypnotised by the vindictive and homicidal madman.

I wish I could believe that doctor. It would help my shaky nerves if I could dismiss what I now

have to think of the air and the sky about and above me. I never feel alone or comfortable,

and a hideous sense of pursuit sometimes comes chillingly on me when I am weary. What

prevents me from believing the doctor is this one simple fact—that the police never found the

bodies of those servants whom they say Crawford Tillinghast murdered.

Return to Table of Contents

Nyarlathotep

(1920)

Nyarlathotep . . . the crawling chaos . . . I am the last . . . I will tell the audient void. . . .

I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was

horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding

apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a

danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the

people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies

which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense

of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill

currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a daemoniac alteration in

the sequence of the seasons—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that

the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to

that of gods or forces which were unknown.

And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was

of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet

could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries,

and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation

came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass

and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the

sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave exhibitions of power which sent his

spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men

advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest

vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the

screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they

could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the

pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples

crumbling against a sickly sky.

I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city—the great, the old, the terrible city of

unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of the impelling fascination and

allurement of his revelations, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries.

My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; that

what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things none but Nyarlathotep

dared prophesy, and that in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from men that which had

never been taken before yet which shewed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that

those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not.

It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see

Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And

shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from

behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves

of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling

sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up

on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads.

And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest

about ―imposture‖ and ―static electricity‖, Nyarlathotep drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs

into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I

never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We sware to one another that

the city was exactly the same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we

cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces we made.

I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to

depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary formations and seemed to know our

destinations though we dared not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found

the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the

tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost

on its side. When we gazed around the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river,

and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we split up

into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared

in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a

weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was

sucked toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for

as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil

snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all

the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily

into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I

thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but

my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half floated

between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the sightless vortex of the

unimaginable.

Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive

shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of

rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush

the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous

things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space

and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this

revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin,

monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond

Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly

the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is

Nyarlathotep.

Return to Table of Contents

The Picture in the House

(1920)

Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombs of Ptolemais,

and the carven mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of

ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbed steps beneath the scattered stones of

forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines, and

they linger around the sinister monoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the

terrible, to whom a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of

existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England;

for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness, and ignorance combine to

form the perfection of the hideous.

Most horrible of all sights are the little unpainted wooden houses remote from travelled ways,

usually squatted upon some damp, grassy slope or leaning against some gigantic outcropping

of rock. Two hundred years and more they have leaned or squatted there, while the vines

have crawled and the trees have swelled and spread. They are almost hidden now in lawless

luxuriances of green and guardian shrouds of shadow; but the small-paned windows still stare

shockingly, as if blinking through a lethal stupor which wards off madness by dulling the

memory of unutterable things.

In such houses have dwelt generations of strange people, whose like the world has never

seen. Seized with a gloomy and fanatical belief which exiled them from their kind, their

ancestors sought the wilderness for freedom. There the scions of a conquering race indeed

flourished free from the restrictions of their fellows, but cowered in an appalling slavery to the

dismal phantasms of their own minds. Divorced from the enlightenment of civilisation, the

strength of these Puritans turned into singular channels; and in their isolation, morbid self-

repression, and struggle for life with relentless Nature, there came to them dark furtive traits

from the prehistoric depths of their cold Northern heritage. By necessity practical and by

philosophy stern, these folk were not beautiful in their sins. Erring as all mortals must, they

were forced by their rigid code to seek concealment above all else; so that they came to use

less and less taste in what they concealed. Only the silent, sleepy, staring houses in the

backwoods can tell all that has lain hidden since the early days; and they are not

communicative, being loath to shake off the drowsiness which helps them forget. Sometimes

one feels that it would be merciful to tear down these houses, for they must often dream.

It was to a time-battered edifice of this description that I was driven one afternoon in

November, 1896, by a rain of such chilling copiousness that any shelter was preferable to

exposure. I had been travelling for some time amongst the people of the Miskatonic Valley in

quest of certain genealogical data; and from the remote, devious, and problematical nature of

my course, had deemed it convenient to employ a bicycle despite the lateness of the season.

Now I found myself upon an apparently abandoned road which I had chosen as the shortest

cut to Arkham; overtaken by the storm at a point far from any town, and confronted with no

refuge save the antique and repellent wooden building which blinked with bleared windows

from between two huge leafless elms near the foot of a rocky hill. Distant though it was from

the remnant of a road, the house none the less impressed me unfavourably the very moment

I espied it. Honest, wholesome structures do not stare at travellers so slyly and hauntingly,

and in my genealogical researches I had encountered legends of a century before which

biassed me against places of this kind. Yet the force of the elements was such as to

overcome my scruples, and I did not hesitate to wheel my machine up the weedy rise to the

closed door which seemed at once so suggestive and secretive.

I had somehow taken it for granted that the house was abandoned, yet as I approached it I

was not so sure; for though the walks were indeed overgrown with weeds, they seemed to

retain their nature a little too well to argue complete desertion. Therefore instead of trying the

door I knocked, feeling as I did so a trepidation I could scarcely explain. As I waited on the

rough, mossy rock which served as a doorstep, I glanced at the neighbouring windows and

the panes of the transom above me, and noticed that although old, rattling, and almost

opaque with dirt, they were not broken. The building, then, must still be inhabited, despite its

isolation and general neglect. However, my rapping evoked no response, so after repeating

the summons I tried the rusty latch and found the door unfastened. Inside was a little

vestibule with walls from which the plaster was falling, and through the doorway came a faint

but peculiarly hateful odour. I entered, carrying my bicycle, and closed the door behind me.

Ahead rose a narrow staircase, flanked by a small door probably leading to the cellar, while to

the left and right were closed doors leading to rooms on the ground floor.

Leaning my cycle against the wall I opened the door at the left, and crossed into a small low-

ceiled chamber but dimly lighted by its two dusty windows and furnished in the barest and

most primitive possible way. It appeared to be a kind of sitting-room, for it had a table and

several chairs, and an immense fireplace above which ticked an antique clock on a mantel.

Books and papers were very few, and in the prevailing gloom I could not readily discern the

titles. What interested me was the uniform air of archaism as displayed in every visible detail.

Most of the houses in this region I had found rich in relics of the past, but here the antiquity

was curiously complete; for in all the room I could not discover a single article of definitely

post-revolutionary date. Had the furnishings been less humble, the place would have been a

collector‘s paradise.

As I surveyed this quaint apartment, I felt an increase in that aversion first excited by the

bleak exterior of the house. Just what it was that I feared or loathed, I could by no means

define; but something in the whole atmosphere seemed redolent of unhallowed age, of

unpleasant crudeness, and of secrets which should be forgotten. I felt disinclined to sit down,

and wandered about examining the various articles which I had noticed. The first object of my

curiosity was a book of medium size lying upon the table and presenting such an antediluvian

aspect that I marvelled at beholding it outside a museum or library. It was bound in leather

with metal fittings, and was in an excellent state of preservation; being altogether an unusual

sort of volume to encounter in an abode so lowly. When I opened it to the title page my

wonder grew even greater, for it proved to be nothing less rare than Pigafetta‘s account of the

Congo region, written in Latin from the notes of the sailor Lopez and printed at Frankfort in

1598. I had often heard of this work, with its curious illustrations by the brothers De Bry, hence

for a moment forgot my uneasiness in my desire to turn the pages before me. The engravings

were indeed interesting, drawn wholly from imagination and careless descriptions, and

represented negroes with white skins and Caucasian features; nor would I soon have closed

the book had not an exceedingly trivial circumstance upset my tired nerves and revived my

sensation of disquiet. What annoyed me was merely the persistent way in which the volume

tended to fall open of itself at Plate XII, which represented in gruesome detail a butcher‘s

shop of the cannibal Anziques. I experienced some shame at my susceptibility to so slight a

thing, but the drawing nevertheless disturbed me, especially in connexion with some adjacent

passages descriptive of Anzique gastronomy.

I had turned to a neighbouring shelf and was examining its meagre literary contents—an

eighteenth-century Bible, a Pilgrim’s Progress of like period, illustrated with grotesque

woodcuts and printed by the almanack-maker Isaiah Thomas, the rotting bulk of Cotton

Mather‘s Magnalia Christi Americana, and a few other books of evidently equal age—when

my attention was aroused by the unmistakable sound of walking in the room overhead. At first

astonished and startled, considering the lack of response to my recent knocking at the door, I

immediately afterward concluded that the walker had just awakened from a sound sleep; and

listened with less surprise as the footsteps sounded on the creaking stairs. The tread was

heavy, yet seemed to contain a curious quality of cautiousness; a quality which I disliked the

more because the tread was heavy. When I had entered the room I had shut the door behind

me. Now, after a moment of silence during which the walker may have been inspecting my

bicycle in the hall, I heard a fumbling at the latch and saw the panelled portal swing open

again.

In the doorway stood a person of such singular appearance that I should have exclaimed

aloud but for the restraints of good breeding. Old, white-bearded, and ragged, my host

possessed a countenance and physique which inspired equal wonder and respect. His height

could not have been less than six feet, and despite a general air of age and poverty he was

stout and powerful in proportion. His face, almost hidden by a long beard which grew high on

the cheeks, seemed abnormally ruddy and less wrinkled than one might expect; while over a

high forehead fell a shock of white hair little thinned by the years. His blue eyes, though a

trifle bloodshot, seemed inexplicably keen and burning. But for his horrible unkemptness the

man would have been as distinguished-looking as he was impressive. This unkemptness,

however, made him offensive despite his face and figure. Of what his clothing consisted I

could hardly tell, for it seemed to me no more than a mass of tatters surmounting a pair of

high, heavy boots; and his lack of cleanliness surpassed description.

The appearance of this man, and the instinctive fear he inspired, prepared me for something

like enmity; so that I almost shuddered through surprise and a sense of uncanny incongruity

when he motioned me to a chair and addressed me in a thin, weak voice full of fawning

respect and ingratiating hospitality. His speech was very curious, an extreme form of Yankee

dialect I had thought long extinct; and I studied it closely as he sat down opposite me for

conversation.

―Ketched in the rain, be ye?‖ he greeted. ―Glad ye was nigh the haouse en‘ hed the sense ta

come right in. I calc‘late I was asleep, else I‘d a heerd ye—I ain‘t as young as I uster be, an‘ I

need a paowerful sight o‘ naps naowadays. Trav‘lin‘ fur? I hain‘t seed many folks ‘long this rud

sence they tuk off the Arkham stage.‖

I replied that I was going to Arkham, and apologised for my rude entry into his domicile,

whereupon he continued.

―Glad ta see ye, young Sir—new faces is scurce arount here, an‘ I hain‘t got much ta cheer

me up these days. Guess yew hail from Bosting, don‘t ye? I never ben thar, but I kin tell a

taown man when I see ‘im—we hed one fer deestrick schoolmaster in ‘eighty-four, but he quit

suddent an‘ no one never heerd on ‘im sence—‖ Here the old man lapsed into a kind of

chuckle, and made no explanation when I questioned him. He seemed to be in an

aboundingly good humour, yet to possess those eccentricities which one might guess from his

grooming. For some time he rambled on with an almost feverish geniality, when it struck me

to ask him how he came by so rare a book as Pigafetta‘s Regnum Congo. The effect of this

volume had not left me, and I felt a certain hesitancy in speaking of it; but curiosity

overmastered all the vague fears which had steadily accumulated since my first glimpse of

the house. To my relief, the question did not seem an awkward one; for the old man answered

freely and volubly.

―Oh, thet Afriky book? Cap‘n Ebenezer Holt traded me thet in ‘sixty-eight—him as was kilt in

the war.‖ Something about the name of Ebenezer Holt caused me to look up sharply. I had

encountered it in my genealogical work, but not in any record since the Revolution. I

wondered if my host could help me in the task at which I was labouring, and resolved to ask

him about it later on. He continued.

―Ebenezer was on a Salem merchantman for years, an‘ picked up a sight o‘ queer stuff in

every port. He got this in London, I guess—he uster like ter buy things at the shops. I was up

ta his haouse onct, on the hill, tradin‘ hosses, when I see this book. I relished the picters, so

he give it in on a swap. ‘Tis a queer book—here, leave me git on my spectacles—‖ The old

man fumbled among his rags, producing a pair of dirty and amazingly antique glasses with

small octagonal lenses and steel bows. Donning these, he reached for the volume on the

table and turned the pages lovingly.

―Ebenezer cud read a leetle o‘ this—‘tis Latin—but I can‘t. I hed two er three schoolmasters

read me a bit, and Passon Clark, him they say got draownded in the pond—kin yew make

anything outen it?‖ I told him that I could, and translated for his benefit a paragraph near the

beginning. If I erred, he was not scholar enough to correct me; for he seemed childishly

pleased at my English version. His proximity was becoming rather obnoxious, yet I saw no

way to escape without offending him. I was amused at the childish fondness of this ignorant

old man for the pictures in a book he could not read, and wondered how much better he could

read the few books in English which adorned the room. This revelation of simplicity removed

much of the ill-defined apprehension I had felt, and I smiled as my host rambled on:

―Queer haow picters kin set a body thinkin‘. Take this un here near the front. Hev yew ever

seed trees like thet, with big leaves a-floppin‘ over an‘ daown? And them men—them can‘t be

niggers—they dew beat all. Kinder like Injuns, I guess, even ef they be in Afriky. Some o‘

these here critters looks like monkeys, or half monkeys an‘ half men, but I never heerd o‘

nothing like this un.‖ Here he pointed to a fabulous creature of the artist, which one might

describe as a sort of dragon with the head of an alligator.

―But naow I‘ll shew ye the best un—over here nigh the middle—‖ The old man‘s speech grew

a trifle thicker and his eyes assumed a brighter glow; but his fumbling hands, though

seemingly clumsier than before, were entirely adequate to their mission. The book fell open,

almost of its own accord and as if from frequent consultation at this place, to the repellent

twelfth plate shewing a butcher‘s shop amongst the Anzique cannibals. My sense of

restlessness returned, though I did not exhibit it. The especially bizarre thing was that the

artist had made his Africans look like white men—the limbs and quarters hanging about the

walls of the shop were ghastly, while the butcher with his axe was hideously incongruous. But

my host seemed to relish the view as much as I disliked it.

―What d‘ye think o‘ this—ain‘t never see the like hereabouts, eh? When I see this I telled Eb

Holt, ‗That‘s suthin‘ ta stir ye up an‘ make yer blood tickle!‘ When I read in Scripter about

slayin‘—like them Midianites was slew—I kinder think things, but I ain‘t got no picter of it. Here

a body kin see all they is to it—I s‘pose ‘tis sinful, but ain‘t we all born an‘ livin‘ in sin?—Thet

feller bein‘ chopped up gives me a tickle every time I look at ‘im—I hev ta keep lookin‘ at ‘im—

see whar the butcher cut off his feet? Thar‘s his head on thet bench, with one arm side of it,

an‘ t‘other arm‘s on the graound side o‘ the meat block.‖

As the man mumbled on in his shocking ecstasy the expression on his hairy, spectacled face

became indescribable, but his voice sank rather than mounted. My own sensations can

scarcely be recorded. All the terror I had dimly felt before rushed upon me actively and vividly,

and I knew that I loathed the ancient and abhorrent creature so near me with an infinite

intensity. His madness, or at least his partial perversion, seemed beyond dispute. He was

almost whispering now, with a huskiness more terrible than a scream, and I trembled as I

listened.

―As I says, ‘tis queer haow picters sets ye thinkin‘. D‘ye know, young Sir, I‘m right sot on this

un here. Arter I got the book off Eb I uster look at it a lot, especial when I‘d heerd Passon

Clark rant o‘ Sundays in his big wig. Onct I tried suthin‘ funny—here, young Sir, don‘t git

skeert—all I done was ter look at the picter afore I kilt the sheep for market—killin‘ sheep was

kinder more fun arter lookin‘ at it—‖ The tone of the old man now sank very low, sometimes

becoming so faint that his words were hardly audible. I listened to the rain, and to the rattling

of the bleared, small-paned windows, and marked a rumbling of approaching thunder quite

unusual for the season. Once a terrific flash and peal shook the frail house to its foundations,

but the whisperer seemed not to notice it.

―Killin‘ sheep was kinder more fun—but d‘ye know, ‘twan‘t quite satisfyin’. Queer haow a

cravin’ gits a holt on ye— As ye love the Almighty, young man, don‘t tell nobody, but I swar ter

Gawd thet picter begun ta make me hungry fer victuals I couldn’t raise nor buy—here, set still,

what‘s ailin‘ ye?—I didn‘t do nothin‘, only I wondered haow ‘twud be ef I did— They say meat

makes blood an‘ flesh, an‘ gives ye new life, so I wondered ef ‘twudn‘t make a man live longer

an‘ longer ef ‘twas more the same—‖ But the whisperer never continued. The interruption was

not produced by my fright, nor by the rapidly increasing storm amidst whose fury I was

presently to open my eyes on a smoky solitude of blackened ruins. It was produced by a very

simple though somewhat unusual happening.

The open book lay flat between us, with the picture staring repulsively upward. As the old man

whispered the words ―more the same” a tiny spattering impact was heard, and something

shewed on the yellowed paper of the upturned volume. I thought of the rain and of a leaky

roof, but rain is not red. On the butcher‘s shop of the Anzique cannibals a small red spattering

glistened picturesquely, lending vividness to the horror of the engraving. The old man saw it,

and stopped whispering even before my expression of horror made it necessary; saw it and

glanced quickly toward the floor of the room he had left an hour before. I followed his glance,

and beheld just above us on the loose plaster of the ancient ceiling a large irregular spot of

wet crimson which seemed to spread even as I viewed it. I did not shriek or move, but merely

shut my eyes. A moment later came the titanic thunderbolt of thunderbolts; blasting that

accursed house of unutterable secrets and bringing the oblivion which alone saved my mind.

Return to Table of Contents

Ex Oblivione

(1921)

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to

madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their

victim‘s body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I

had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.

Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and

languorously under strange stars.

Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I

reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours, and undying roses.

And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended

in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.

Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral

half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground

stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of

buried temples. And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the

little gate of bronze therein.

After a while, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and

sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and

wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl

back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in

the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered,

there would be no return.

So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall,

though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall

was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.

Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the

thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born

in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and

among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall

pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I

had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.

Some of the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the wonders beyond the irrepassable gate, but

others told of horror and disappointment. I knew not which to believe, yet longed more and

more to cross forever into the unknown land; for doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures, and

no new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace. So when I

learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through, I resolved to take it

when next I awaked.

Last night I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy

groves; and when I came this time to the antique wall, I saw that the small gate of bronze was

ajar. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the tops of the

buried temples, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the glories of the land from whence I

should never return.

The Nameless City

(1921)

When I drew nigh the nameless city I knew it was accursed. I was travelling in a parched and

terrible valley under the moon, and afar I saw it protruding uncannily above the sands as parts

of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. Fear spoke from the age-worn stones of this

hoary survivor of the deluge, this great-grandmother of the eldest pyramid; and a viewless

aura repelled me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man should

see, and no man else had ever dared to see.

Remote in the desert of Araby lies the nameless city, crumbling and inarticulate, its low walls

nearly hidden by the sands of uncounted ages. It must have been thus before the first stones

of Memphis were laid, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. There is no legend

so old as to give it a name, or to recall that it was ever alive; but it is told of in whispers

around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the tents of sheiks, so that all the tribes

shun it without wholly knowing why. It was of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad poet

dreamed on the night before he sang his unexplainable couplet:

―That is not dead which can eternal lie,

And with strange aeons even death may die.‖

I should have known that the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city, the city

told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, yet I defied them and went into the

untrodden waste with my camel. I alone have seen it, and that is why no other face bears

such hideous lines of fear as mine; why no other man shivers so horribly when the night-wind

rattles the windows. When I came upon it in the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at

me, chilly from the rays of a cold moon amidst the desert‘s heat. And as I returned its look I

forgot my triumph at finding it, and stopped still with my camel to wait for the dawn.

For hours I waited, till the east grew grey and the stars faded, and the grey turned to roseal

light edged with gold. I heard a moaning and saw a storm of sand stirring among the antique

stones though the sky was clear and the vast reaches of the desert still. Then suddenly above

the desert‘s far rim came the blazing edge of the sun, seen through the tiny sandstorm which

was passing away, and in my fevered state I fancied that from some remote depth there came

a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the banks of the Nile.

My ears rang and my imagination seethed as I led my camel slowly across the sand to that

unvocal stone place; that place too old for Egypt and Meroë to remember; that place which I

alone of living men had seen.

In and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and palaces I wandered, finding

never a carving or inscription to tell of those men, if men they were, who built the city and

dwelt therein so long ago. The antiquity of the spot was unwholesome, and I longed to

encounter some sign or device to prove that the city was indeed fashioned by mankind. There

were certain proportions and dimensions in the ruins which I did not like. I had with me many

tools, and dug much within the walls of the obliterated edifices; but progress was slow, and

nothing significant was revealed. When night and the moon returned I felt a chill wind which

brought new fear, so that I did not dare to remain in the city. And as I went outside the antique

walls to sleep, a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, blowing over the grey stones

though the moon was bright and most of the desert still.

I awaked just at dawn from a pageant of horrible dreams, my ears ringing as from some

metallic peal. I saw the sun peering redly through the last gusts of a little sandstorm that

hovered over the nameless city, and marked the quietness of the rest of the landscape. Once

more I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand like an ogre under

a coverlet, and again dug vainly for relics of the forgotten race. At noon I rested, and in the

afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls, and the bygone streets, and the outlines of the

nearly vanished buildings. I saw that the city had been mighty indeed, and wondered at the

sources of its greatness. To myself I pictured all the splendours of an age so distant that

Chaldaea could not recall it, and thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that stood in the land of

Mnar when mankind was young, and of Ib, that was carven of grey stone before mankind

existed.

All at once I came upon a place where the bed-rock rose stark through the sand and formed a

low cliff; and here I saw with joy what seemed to promise further traces of the antediluvian

people. Hewn rudely on the face of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small,

squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too

remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long since effaced any carvings which may

have been outside.

Very low and sand-choked were all of the dark apertures near me, but I cleared one with my

spade and crawled through it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might hold.

When I was inside I saw that the cavern was indeed a temple, and beheld plain signs of the

race that had lived and worshipped before the desert was a desert. Primitive altars, pillars,

and niches, all curiously low, were not absent; and though I saw no sculptures nor frescoes,

there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. The lowness

of the chiselled chamber was very strange, for I could hardly more than kneel upright; but the

area was so great that my torch shewed only part at a time. I shuddered oddly in some of the

far corners; for certain altars and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, revolting, and

inexplicable nature, and made me wonder what manner of men could have made and

frequented such a temple. When I had seen all that the place contained, I crawled out again,

avid to find what the other temples might yield.

Night had now approached, yet the tangible things I had seen made curiosity stronger than

fear, so that I did not flee from the long moon-cast shadows that had daunted me when first I

saw the nameless city. In the twilight I cleared another aperture and with a new torch crawled

into it, finding more vague stones and symbols, though nothing more definite than the other

temple had contained. The room was just as low, but much less broad, ending in a very

narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. About these shrines I was prying

when the noise of a wind and of my camel outside broke through the stillness and drew me

forth to see what could have frightened the beast.

The moon was gleaming vividly over the primeval ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand that

seemed blown by a strong but decreasing wind from some point along the cliff ahead of me. I

knew it was this chilly, sandy wind which had disturbed the camel, and was about to lead him

to a place of better shelter when I chanced to glance up and saw that there was no wind atop

the cliff. This astonished me and made me fearful again, but I immediately recalled the

sudden local winds I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and judged it was a

normal thing. I decided that it came from some rock fissure leading to a cave, and watched

the troubled sand to trace it to its source; soon perceiving that it came from the black orifice of

a temple a long distance south of me, almost out of sight. Against the choking sand-cloud I

plodded toward this temple, which as I neared it loomed larger than the rest, and shewed a

doorway far less clogged with caked sand. I would have entered had not the terrific force of

the icy wind almost quenched my torch. It poured madly out of the dark door, sighing

uncannily as it ruffled the sand and spread about the weird ruins. Soon it grew fainter and the

sand grew more and more still, till finally all was at rest again; but a presence seemed stalking

among the spectral stones of the city, and when I glanced at the moon it seemed to quiver as

though mirrored in unquiet waters. I was more afraid than I could explain, but not enough to

dull my thirst for wonder; so as soon as the wind was quite gone I crossed into the dark

chamber from which it had come.

This temple, as I had fancied from the outside, was larger than either of those I had visited

before; and was presumably a natural cavern, since it bore winds from some region beyond.

Here I could stand quite upright, but saw that the stones and altars were as low as those in

the other temples. On the walls and roof I beheld for the first time some traces of the pictorial

art of the ancient race, curious curling streaks of paint that had almost faded or crumbled

away; and on two of the altars I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned

curvilinear carvings. As I held my torch aloft it seemed to me that the shape of the roof was

too regular to be natural, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked

upon. Their engineering skill must have been vast.

Then a brighter flare of the fantastic flame shewed me that for which I had been seeking, the

opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden wind had blown; and I grew faint when

I saw that it was a small and plainly artificial door chiselled in the solid rock. I thrust my torch

within, beholding a black tunnel with the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small,

numerous, and steeply descending steps. I shall always see those steps in my dreams, for I

came to learn what they meant. At the time I hardly knew whether to call them steps or mere

foot-holds in a precipitous descent. My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and the words

and warnings of Arab prophets seemed to float across the desert from the lands that men

know to the nameless city that men dare not know. Yet I hesitated only a moment before

advancing through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the steep passage,

feet first, as though on a ladder.

It is only in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have had such

a descent as mine. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well,

and the torch I held above my head could not light the unknown depths toward which I was

crawling. I lost track of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though I was frightened

when I thought of the distance I must be traversing. There were changes of direction and of

steepness, and once I came to a long, low, level passage where I had to wriggle feet first

along the rocky floor, holding my torch at arm‘s length beyond my head. The place was not

high enough for kneeling. After that were more of the steep steps, and I was still scrambling

down interminably when my failing torch died out. I do not think I noticed it at the time, for

when I did notice it I was still holding it high above me as if it were ablaze. I was quite

unbalanced with that instinct for the strange and the unknown which has made me a

wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and forbidden places.

In the darkness there flashed before my mind fragments of my cherished treasury of

daemoniac lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the apocryphal

nightmares of Damascius, and infamous lines from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier

de Metz. I repeated queer extracts, and muttered of Afrasiab and the daemons that floated

with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and over again a phrase from one of Lord

Dunsany‘s tales—―the unreverberate blackness of the abyss‖. Once when the descent grew

amazingly steep I recited something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite

―A reservoir of darkness, black

As witches‘ cauldrons are, when fill‘d

With moon-drugs in th‘ eclipse distill‘d.

Leaning to look if foot might pass

Down thro‘ that chasm, I saw, beneath,

As far as vision could explore,

The jetty sides as smooth as glass,

Looking as if just varnish‘d o‘er

With that dark pitch the Sea of Death

Throws out upon its slimy shore.‖

Time had quite ceased to exist when my feet again felt a level floor, and I found myself in a

place slightly higher than the rooms in the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above

my head. I could not quite stand, but could kneel upright, and in the dark I shuffled and crept

hither and thither at random. I soon knew that I was in a narrow passage whose walls were

lined with cases of wood having glass fronts. As in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt of

such things as polished wood and glass I shuddered at the possible implications. The cases

were apparently ranged along each side of the passage at regular intervals, and were oblong

and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. When I tried to move two or three for

further examination, I found they were firmly fastened.

I saw that the passage was a long one, so floundered ahead rapidly in a creeping run that

would have seemed horrible had any eye watched me in the blackness; crossing from side to

side occasionally to feel of my surroundings and be sure the walls and rows of cases still

stretched on. Man is so used to thinking visually that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured

the endless corridor of wood and glass in its low-studded monotony as though I saw it. And

then in a moment of indescribable emotion I did see it.

Just when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but there came a gradual glow ahead,

and all at once I knew that I saw the dim outlines of the corridor and the cases, revealed by

some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. For a little while all was exactly as I had

imagined it, since the glow was very faint; but as I mechanically kept on stumbling ahead into

the stronger light I realised that my fancy had been but feeble. This hall was no relic of crudity

like the temples in the city above, but a monument of the most magnificent and exotic art.

Rich, vivid, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural

painting whose lines and colours were beyond description. The cases were of a strange

golden wood, with fronts of exquisite glass, and contained the mummified forms of creatures

outreaching in grotesqueness the most chaotic dreams of man.

To convey any idea of these monstrosities is impossible. They were of the reptile kind, with

body lines suggesting sometimes the crocodile, sometimes the seal, but more often nothing of

which either the naturalist or the palaeontologist ever heard. In size they approximated a

small man, and their fore legs bore delicate and evidently flexible feet curiously like human

hands and fingers. But strangest of all were their heads, which presented a contour violating

all known biological principles. To nothing can such things be well compared—in one flash I

thought of comparisons as varied as the cat, the bulldog, the mythic Satyr, and the human

being. Not Jove himself had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the

noselessness and the alligator-like jaw placed the things outside all established categories. I

debated for a time on the reality of the mummies, half suspecting they were artificial idols; but

soon decided they were indeed some palaeogean species which had lived when the

nameless city was alive. To crown their grotesqueness, most of them were gorgeously

enrobed in the costliest of fabrics, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold, jewels, and

unknown shining metals.

The importance of these crawling creatures must have been vast, for they held first place

among the wild designs on the frescoed walls and ceiling. With matchless skill had the artist

drawn them in a world of their own, wherein they had cities and gardens fashioned to suit

their dimensions; and I could not but think that their pictured history was allegorical, perhaps

shewing the progress of the race that worshipped them. These creatures, I said to myself,

were to the men of the nameless city what the she-wolf was to Rome, or some totem-beast is

to a tribe of Indians.

Holding this view, I thought I could trace roughly a wonderful epic of the nameless city; the

tale of a mighty sea-coast metropolis that ruled the world before Africa rose out of the waves,

and of its struggles as the sea shrank away, and the desert crept into the fertile valley that

held it. I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and afterward its terrible fight

against the desert when thousands of its people—here represented in allegory by the

grotesque reptiles—were driven to chisel their way down through the rocks in some

marvellous manner to another world whereof their prophets had told them. It was all vividly

weird and realistic, and its connexion with the awesome descent I had made was

unmistakable. I even recognised the passages.

As I crept along the corridor toward the brighter light I saw later stages of the painted epic—

the leave-taking of the race that had dwelt in the nameless city and the valley around for ten

million years; the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so

long, where they had settled as nomads in the earth‘s youth, hewing in the virgin rock those

primal shrines at which they never ceased to worship. Now that the light was better I studied

the pictures more closely, and, remembering that the strange reptiles must represent the

unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the nameless city. Many things were peculiar

and inexplicable. The civilisation, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a

higher order than those immeasurably later civilisations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet there

were curious omissions. I could, for example, find no pictures to represent deaths or funeral

customs, save such as were related to wars, violence, and plagues; and I wondered at the

reticence shewn concerning natural death. It was as though an ideal of earthly immortality

had been fostered as a cheering illusion.

Still nearer the end of the passage were painted scenes of the utmost picturesqueness and

extravagance; contrasted views of the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and of

the strange new realm or paradise to which the race had hewed its way through the stone. In

these views the city and the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, a golden nimbus

hovering over the fallen walls and half revealing the splendid perfection of former times,

shewn spectrally and elusively by the artist. The paradisal scenes were almost too

extravagant to be believed; portraying a hidden world of eternal day filled with glorious cities

and ethereal hills and valleys. At the very last I thought I saw signs of an artistic anti-climax.

The paintings were less skilful, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the earlier

scenes. They seemed to record a slow decadence of the ancient stock, coupled with a

growing ferocity toward the outside world from which it was driven by the desert. The forms of

the people—always represented by the sacred reptiles—appeared to be gradually wasting

away, though their spirit as shewn hovering about the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion.

Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all who

breathed it; and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, perhaps a pioneer of

ancient Irem, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by members of the elder race. I remembered

how the Arabs fear the nameless city, and was glad that beyond this place the grey walls and

ceiling were bare.

As I viewed the pageant of mural history I had approached very closely the end of the low-

ceiled hall, and was aware of a great gate through which came all of the illuminating

phosphorescence. Creeping up to it, I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay

beyond; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was only an illimitable void of

uniform radiance, such as one might fancy when gazing down from the peak of Mount

Everest upon a sea of sunlit mist. Behind me was a passage so cramped that I could not

stand upright in it; before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence.

Reaching down from the passage into the abyss was the head of a steep flight of steps—

small numerous steps like those of the black passages I had traversed—but after a few feet

the glowing vapours concealed everything. Swung back open against the left-hand wall of the

passage was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-

reliefs, which could if closed shut the whole inner world of light away from the vaults and

passages of rock. I looked at the steps, and for the nonce dared not try them. I touched the

open brass door, and could not move it. Then I sank prone to the stone floor, my mind aflame

with prodigious reflections which not even a death-like exhaustion could banish.

As I lay still with closed eyes, free to ponder, many things I had lightly noted in the frescoes

came back to me with new and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city

in its heyday, the vegetation of the valley around it, and the distant lands with which its

merchants traded. The allegory of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal

prominence, and I wondered that it should be so closely followed in a pictured history of such

importance. In the frescoes the nameless city had been shewn in proportions fitted to the

reptiles. I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been, and reflected a

moment on certain oddities I had noticed in the ruins. I thought curiously of the lowness of the

primal temples and of the underground corridor, which were doubtless hewn thus out of

deference to the reptile deities there honoured; though it perforce reduced the worshippers to

crawling. Perhaps the very rites had involved a crawling in imitation of the creatures. No

religious theory, however, could easily explain why the level passage in that awesome

descent should be as low as the temples—or lower, since one could not even kneel in it. As I

thought of the crawling creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me, I felt

a new throb of fear. Mental associations are curious, and I shrank from the idea that except

for the poor primitive man torn to pieces in the last painting, mine was the only human form

amidst the many relics and symbols of primordial life.

But as always in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for the

luminous abyss and what it might contain presented a problem worthy of the greatest

explorer. That a weird world of mystery lay far down that flight of peculiarly small steps I could

not doubt, and I hoped to find there those human memorials which the painted corridor had

failed to give. The frescoes had pictured unbelievable cities, hills, and valleys in this lower

realm, and my fancy dwelt on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me.

My fears, indeed, concerned the past rather than the future. Not even the physical horror of

my position in that cramped corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, miles below

the world I knew and faced by another world of eerie light and mist, could match the lethal

dread I felt at the abysmal antiquity of the scene and its soul. An ancientness so vast that

measurement is feeble seemed to leer down from the primal stones and rock-hewn temples in

the nameless city, while the very latest of the astounding maps in the frescoes shewed

oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with only here and there some vaguely familiar

outline. Of what could have happened in the geological aeons since the paintings ceased and

the death-hating race resentfully succumbed to decay, no man might say. Life had once

teemed in these caverns and in the luminous realm beyond; now I was alone with vivid relics,

and I trembled to think of the countless ages through which these relics had kept a silent and

deserted vigil.

Suddenly there came another burst of that acute fear which had intermittently seized me ever

since I first saw the terrible valley and the nameless city under a cold moon, and despite my

exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a sitting posture and gazing back along the

black corridor toward the tunnels that rose to the outer world. My sensations were much like

those which had made me shun the nameless city at night, and were as inexplicable as they

were poignant. In another moment, however, I received a still greater shock in the form of a

definite sound—the first which had broken the utter silence of these tomb-like depths. It was a

deep, low moaning, as of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and came from the direction

in which I was staring. Its volume rapidly grew, till soon it reverberated frightfully through the

low passage, and at the same time I became conscious of an increasing draught of cold air,

likewise flowing from the tunnels and the city above. The touch of this air seemed to restore

my balance, for I instantly recalled the sudden gusts which had risen around the mouth of the

abyss each sunset and sunrise, one of which had indeed served to reveal the hidden tunnels

to me. I looked at my watch and saw that sunrise was near, so braced myself to resist the

gale which was sweeping down to its cavern home as it had swept forth at evening. My fear

again waned low, since a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the unknown.

More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night-wind into that gulf of the inner

earth. I dropped prone again and clutched vainly at the floor for fear of being swept bodily

through the open gate into the phosphorescent abyss. Such fury I had not expected, and as I

grew aware of an actual slipping of my form toward the abyss I was beset by a thousand new

terrors of apprehension and imagination. The malignancy of the blast awakened incredible

fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the only other human image in that

frightful corridor, the man who was torn to pieces by the nameless race, for in the fiendish

clawing of the swirling currents there seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the stronger

because it was largely impotent. I think I screamed frantically near the last—I was almost

mad—but if I did so my cries were lost in the hell-born babel of the howling wind-wraiths. I

tried to crawl against the murderous invisible torrent, but I could not even hold my own as I

was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the unknown world. Finally reason must have

wholly snapped, for I fell to babbling over and over that unexplainable couplet of the mad Arab

Alhazred, who dreamed of the nameless city:

―That is not dead which can eternal lie,

And with strange aeons even death may die.‖

Only the grim brooding desert gods know what really took place—what indescribable

struggles and scrambles in the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to life, where

I must always remember and shiver in the night-wind till oblivion—or worse—claims me.

Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was the thing—too far beyond all the ideas of man to be

believed except in the silent damnable small hours when one cannot sleep.

I have said that the fury of the rushing blast was infernal—cacodaemoniacal—and that its

voices were hideous with the pent-up viciousness of desolate eternities. Presently those

voices, while still chaotic before me, seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form

The Quest of Iranon

(1921)

Into the granite city of Teloth wandered the youth, vine-crowned, his yellow hair glistening with

myrrh and his purple robe torn with briers of the mountain Sidrak that lies across the antique

bridge of stone. The men of Teloth are dark and stern, and dwell in square houses, and with

frowns they asked the stranger whence he had come and what were his name and fortune.

So the youth answered:

―I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. I am

a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things

remembered of childhood. My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I

sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotos-buds.‖

When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the

granite city there is no laughter or song, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills in

the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travellers have told. And thinking

thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they

liked not the colour of his tattered robe, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-

leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old

man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer‘s head. But most of the

men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went away to sleep; for Iranon told

nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his hopes.

―I remember the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the window where I was rocked to

sleep. And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the

shadows danced on houses of marble. I remember the square of moonlight on the floor, that

was not like any other light, and the visions that danced in the moonbeams when my mother

sang to me. And too, I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-coloured hills in

summer, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the south wind that made the trees sing.

―O Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! How loved I the warm and

fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed through the

verdant valley! In those groves and in that vale the children wove wreaths for one another,

and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below

me the lights of the city, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars.

―And in the city were palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted

walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Often I played in the

gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the

trees. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open

place, and look down upon Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of

golden flame.

―Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father

was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. All through seven

lands have I sought thee, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets

and palaces, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and laugh not nor turn away. For

I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira.‖

That night the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the morning an archon

came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.

―But I am Iranon, a singer of songs,‖ he said, ―and have no heart for the cobbler‘s trade.‖

―All in Teloth must toil,‖ replied the archon, ―for that is the law.‖ Then said Iranon,

―Wherefore do ye toil; is it not that ye may live and be happy? And if ye toil only that ye may

toil more, when shall happiness find you? Ye toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and

song? And if ye suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil? Toil without

song is like a weary journey without an end. Were not death more pleasing?‖ But the archon

was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger.

―Thou art a strange youth, and I like not thy face nor thy voice. The words thou speakest are

blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. Our gods have promised us a

haven of light beyond death, where there shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness

amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Go thou then to

Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the city by sunset. All here must serve, and song is folly.‖

So Iranon went out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the

gloomy square houses of granite, seeking something green in the air of spring. But in Teloth

was nothing green, for all was of stone. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone

embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sate a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the

waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. And the

boy said to him:

―Art thou not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seekest a far city in a fair land? I am

Romnod, and born of the blood of Teloth, but am not old in the ways of the granite city, and

yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. Beyond the

Karthian hills lieth Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both

lovely and terrible. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither shouldst

thou go an thou wouldst sing and have men listen to thee. Let us leave the city Teloth and

fare together among the hills of spring. Thou shalt shew me the ways of travel and I will

attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one bring dreams to the minds of

dreamers. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair

Aira thou seekest, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since old days, and a name often

changeth. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our

longings and welcome us as brothers, nor ever laugh or frown at what we say.‖ And Iranon

answered:

―Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains

and beyond, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. But think not that delight

and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or in any spot thou canst find in a

day‘s, or a year‘s, or a lustrum‘s journey. Behold, when I was small like thee I dwelt in the

valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself

that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to smiling dromedary-

men in the market-place. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken

and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I travelled in a barge down the Xari

to onyx-walled Jaren. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drave me out, so that I

wandered to many other cities. I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and

have gazed on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and

Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have dwelt long in Olathoë in the land of Lomar. But

though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few, and I know that welcome

shall await me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King.

So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across

the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. Aira‘s beauty is past

imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper

leeringly.‖

At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst

the green hills and cool forests. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem

nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon

would sing of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that they were both happy

after a fashion. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of

time, but many years must have slipped away. Small Romnod was now not so small, and

spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden

hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. So it came to pass one day that

Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found

him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro.

Then one night when the moon was full the travellers came to a mountain crest and looked

down upon the myriad lights of Oonai. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon

knew that this was not his native city of Aira. The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira;

for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone

the moonlight on the floor by the window where Iranon‘s mother once rocked him to sleep

with song. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the

steep slope that they might find men to whom songs and dreams would bring pleasure. And

when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revellers bound from house to

house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and

tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. Then for a moment did Iranon believe

he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not an hundredth

as fair as Aira.

When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the domes of Oonai were not golden

in the sun, but grey and dismal. And the men of Oonai were pale with revelling and dull with

wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira. But because the people had thrown him blossoms

and acclaimed his songs Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the

town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Often at night Iranon sang to the revellers,

but he was always as before, crowned only with the vine of the mountains and remembering

the marble streets of Aira and the hyaline Nithra. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he

sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang he brought

pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered

things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. And the King bade

him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of

green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on

a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Thus

dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing.

It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace

some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in

the East, and after that the revellers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers

and the flute-players. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite

Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less

delight to the songs of Iranon. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and at

evening told again his dreams of Aira, the city of marble and beryl. Then one night the red and

fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died

writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. And when Iranon had

wept over the grave of Romnod and strown it with green budding branches, such as Romnod

used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the city of lutes

and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh

vines from the mountains.

Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would

understand and cherish his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands

beyond the Bnazic desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of

purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreaths upon his golden head whilst he sang

of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future.

So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept lean

flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. To this man Iranon spoke, as to so many

others:

―Canst thou tell me where I may find Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline

Nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra sing to verdant valleys and hills forested with yath

trees?‖ And the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon, as if recalling

something very far away in time, and noted each line of the stranger‘s face, and his golden

hair, and his crown of vine-leaves. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied:

―O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but

they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. I heard them in my youth from the

lips of a playmate, a beggar‘s boy given to strange dreams, who would weave long tales

about the moon and the flowers and the west wind. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him

from his birth though he thought himself a King‘s son. He was comely, even as thou, but full of

folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to

his songs and dreams. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things

that never can be! Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the

tiny Kra. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from

his birth. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, nor those who could delight in strange

songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone.‖

And in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a

radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening,

there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with

withered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where

dreams are understood. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world.

Return to Table of Contents

The Moon-Bog

(1921)

Somewhere, to what remote and fearsome region I know not, Denys Barry has gone. I was

with him the last night he lived among men, and heard his screams when the thing came to

him; but all the peasants and police in County Meath could never find him, or the others,

though they searched long and far. And now I shudder when I hear the frogs piping in

swamps, or see the moon in lonely places.

I had known Denys Barry well in America, where he had grown rich, and had congratulated

him when he bought back the old castle by the bog at sleepy Kilderry. It was from Kilderry that

his father had come, and it was there that he wished to enjoy his wealth among ancestral

scenes. Men of his blood had once ruled over Kilderry and built and dwelt in the castle, but

those days were very remote, so that for generations the castle had been empty and

decaying. After he went to Ireland Barry wrote me often, and told me how under his care the

grey castle was rising tower by tower to its ancient splendour; how the ivy was climbing slowly

over the restored walls as it had climbed so many centuries ago, and how the peasants

blessed him for bringing back the old days with his gold from over the sea. But in time there

came troubles, and the peasants ceased to bless him, and fled away instead as from a doom.

And then he sent a letter and asked me to visit him, for he was lonely in the castle with no one

to speak to save the new servants and labourers he had brought from the north.

The bog was the cause of all these troubles, as Barry told me the night I came to the castle. I

had reached Kilderry in the summer sunset, as the gold of the sky lighted the green of the

hills and groves and the blue of the bog, where on a far islet a strange olden ruin glistened

spectrally. That sunset was very beautiful, but the peasants at Ballylough had warned me

against it and said that Kilderry had become accursed, so that I almost shuddered to see the

high turrets of the castle gilded with fire. Barry‘s motor had met me at the Ballylough station,

for Kilderry is off the railway. The villagers had shunned the car and the driver from the north,

but had whispered to me with pale faces when they saw I was going to Kilderry. And that

night, after our reunion, Barry told me why.

The peasants had gone from Kilderry because Denys Barry was to drain the great bog. For all

his love of Ireland, America had not left him untouched, and he hated the beautiful wasted

space where peat might be cut and land opened up. The legends and superstitions of Kilderry

did not move him, and he laughed when the peasants first refused to help, and then cursed

him and went away to Ballylough with their few belongings as they saw his determination. In

their place he sent for labourers from the north, and when the servants left he replaced them

likewise. But it was lonely among strangers, so Barry had asked me to come.

When I heard the fears which had driven the people from Kilderry I laughed as loudly as my

friend had laughed, for these fears were of the vaguest, wildest, and most absurd character.

They had to do with some preposterous legend of the bog, and of a grim guardian spirit that

dwelt in the strange olden ruin on the far islet I had seen in the sunset. There were tales of

dancing lights in the dark of the moon, and of chill winds when the night was warm; of wraiths

in white hovering over the waters, and of an imagined city of stone deep down below the

swampy surface. But foremost among the weird fancies, and alone in its absolute unanimity,

was that of the curse awaiting him who should dare to touch or drain the vast reddish morass.

There were secrets, said the peasants, which must not be uncovered; secrets that had lain

hidden since the plague came to the children of Partholan in the fabulous years beyond

history. In the Book of Invaders it is told that these sons of the Greeks were all buried at

Tallaght, but old men in Kilderry said that one city was overlooked save by its patron moon-

goddess; so that only the wooded hills buried it when the men of Nemed swept down from

Scythia in their thirty ships.

Such were the idle tales which had made the villagers leave Kilderry, and when I heard them I

did not wonder that Denys Barry had refused to listen. He had, however, a great interest in

antiquities; and proposed to explore the bog thoroughly when it was drained. The white ruins

on the islet he had often visited, but though their age was plainly great, and their contour very

little like that of most ruins in Ireland, they were too dilapidated to tell the days of their glory.

Now the work of drainage was ready to begin, and the labourers from the north were soon to

strip the forbidden bog of its green moss and red heather, and kill the tiny shell-paved

streamlets and quiet blue pools fringed with rushes.

After Barry had told me these things I was very drowsy, for the travels of the day had been

wearying and my host had talked late into the night. A manservant shewed me to my room,

which was in a remote tower overlooking the village, and the plain at the edge of the bog, and

the bog itself; so that I could see from my windows in the moonlight the silent roofs from

which the peasants had fled and which now sheltered the labourers from the north, and too,

the parish church with its antique spire, and far out across the brooding bog the remote olden

ruin on the islet gleaming white and spectral. Just as I dropped to sleep I fancied I heard faint

sounds from the distance; sounds that were wild and half musical, and stirred me with a weird

excitement which coloured my dreams. But when I awaked next morning I felt it had all been

a dream, for the visions I had seen were more wonderful than any sound of wild pipes in the

night. Influenced by the legends that Barry had related, my mind had in slumber hovered

around a stately city in a green valley, where marble streets and statues, villas and temples,

carvings and inscriptions, all spoke in certain tones the glory that was Greece. When I told

this dream to Barry we both laughed; but I laughed the louder, because he was perplexed

about his labourers from the north. For the sixth time they had all overslept, waking very

slowly and dazedly, and acting as if they had not rested, although they were known to have

gone early to bed the night before.

That morning and afternoon I wandered alone through the sun-gilded village and talked now

and then with idle labourers, for Barry was busy with the final plans for beginning his work of

drainage. The labourers were not as happy as they might have been, for most of them

seemed uneasy over some dream which they had had, yet which they tried in vain to

remember. I told them of my dream, but they were not interested till I spoke of the weird

sounds I thought I had heard. Then they looked oddly at me, and said that they seemed to

remember weird sounds, too.

In the evening Barry dined with me and announced that he would begin the drainage in two

days. I was glad, for although I disliked to see the moss and the heather and the little streams

and lakes depart, I had a growing wish to discern the ancient secrets the deep-matted peat

might hide. And that night my dreams of piping flutes and marble peristyles came to a sudden

and disquieting end; for upon the city in the valley I saw a pestilence descend, and then a

frightful avalanche of wooded slopes that covered the dead bodies in the streets and left

unburied only the temple of Artemis on the high peak, where the aged moon-priestess Cleis

lay cold and silent with a crown of ivory on her silver head.

I have said that I awaked suddenly and in alarm. For some time I could not tell whether I was

waking or sleeping, for the sound of flutes still rang shrilly in my ears; but when I saw on the

floor the icy moonbeams and the outlines of a latticed Gothic window I decided I must be

awake and in the castle at Kilderry. Then I heard a clock from some remote landing below

strike the hour of two, and I knew I was awake. Yet still there came that monotonous piping

from afar; wild, weird airs that made me think of some dance of fauns on distant Maenalus. It

would not let me sleep, and in impatience I sprang up and paced the floor. Only by chance did

I go to the north window and look out upon the silent village and the plain at the edge of the

bog. I had no wish to gaze abroad, for I wanted to sleep; but the flutes tormented me, and I

had to do or see something. How could I have suspected the thing I was to behold?

There in the moonlight that flooded the spacious plain was a spectacle which no mortal,

having seen it, could ever forget. To the sound of reedy pipes that echoed over the bog there

glided silently and eerily a mixed throng of swaying figures, reeling through such a revel as

the Sicilians may have danced to Demeter in the old days under the harvest moon beside the

Cyane. The wide plain, the golden moonlight, the shadowy moving forms, and above all the

shrill monotonous piping, produced an effect which almost paralysed me; yet I noted amidst

my fear that half of these tireless, mechanical dancers were the labourers whom I had thought

asleep, whilst the other half were strange airy beings in white, half indeterminate in nature,

but suggesting pale wistful naiads from the haunted fountains of the bog. I do not know how

long I gazed at this sight from the lonely turret window before I dropped suddenly in a

dreamless swoon, out of which the high sun of morning aroused me.

My first impulse on awaking was to communicate all my fears and observations to Denys

Barry, but as I saw the sunlight glowing through the latticed east window I became sure that

there was no reality in what I thought I had seen. I am given to strange phantasms, yet am

never weak enough to believe in them; so on this occasion contented myself with questioning

the labourers, who slept very late and recalled nothing of the previous night save misty

dreams of shrill sounds. This matter of the spectral piping harassed me greatly, and I

wondered if the crickets of autumn had come before their time to vex the night and haunt the

visions of men. Later in the day I watched Barry in the library poring over his plans for the

great work which was to begin on the morrow, and for the first time felt a touch of the same

kind of fear that had driven the peasants away. For some unknown reason I dreaded the

thought of disturbing the ancient bog and its sunless secrets, and pictured terrible sights lying

black under the unmeasured depth of age-old peat. That these secrets should be brought to

light seemed injudicious, and I began to wish for an excuse to leave the castle and the village.

I went so far as to talk casually to Barry on the subject, but did not dare continue after he

gave his resounding laugh. So I was silent when the sun set fulgently over the far hills, and

Kilderry blazed all red and gold in a flame that seemed a portent.

Whether the events of that night were of reality or illusion I shall never ascertain. Certainly

they transcend anything we dream of in Nature and the universe; yet in no normal fashion can

I explain those disappearances which were known to all men after it was over. I retired early

and full of dread, and for a long time could not sleep in the uncanny silence of the tower. It

was very dark, for although the sky was clear the moon was now well in the wane, and would

not rise till the small hours. I thought as I lay there of Denys Barry, and of what would befall

that bog when the day came, and found myself almost frantic with an impulse to rush out into

the night, take Barry‘s car, and drive madly to Ballylough out of the menaced lands. But before

my fears could crystallise into action I had fallen asleep, and gazed in dreams upon the city in

the valley, cold and dead under a shroud of hideous shadow.

Probably it was the shrill piping that awaked me, yet that piping was not what I noticed first

when I opened my eyes. I was lying with my back to the east window overlooking the bog,

where the waning moon would rise, and therefore expected to see light cast on the opposite

wall before me; but I had not looked for such a sight as now appeared. Light indeed glowed

on the panels ahead, but it was not any light that the moon gives. Terrible and piercing was

the shaft of ruddy refulgence that streamed through the Gothic window, and the whole

chamber was brilliant with a splendour intense and unearthly. My immediate actions were

peculiar for such a situation, but it is only in tales that a man does the dramatic and foreseen

thing. Instead of looking out across the bog toward the source of the new light, I kept my eyes

from the window in panic fear, and clumsily drew on my clothing with some dazed idea of

escape. I remember seizing my revolver and hat, but before it was over I had lost them both

without firing the one or donning the other. After a time the fascination of the red radiance

overcame my fright, and I crept to the east window and looked out whilst the maddening,

incessant piping whined and reverberated through the castle and over all the village.

Over the bog was a deluge of flaring light, scarlet and sinister, and pouring from the strange

olden ruin on the far islet. The aspect of that ruin I cannot describe—I must have been mad,

for it seemed to rise majestic and undecayed, splendid and column-cinctured, the flame-

reflecting marble of its entablature piercing the sky like the apex of a temple on a mountain-

top. Flutes shrieked and drums began to beat, and as I watched in awe and terror I thought I

saw dark saltant forms silhouetted grotesquely against the vision of marble and effulgence.

The effect was titanic—altogether unthinkable—and I might have stared indefinitely had not

the sound of the piping seemed to grow stronger at my left. Trembling with a terror oddly

mixed with ecstasy I crossed the circular room to the north window from which I could see the

village and the plain at the edge of the bog. There my eyes dilated again with a wild wonder

as great as if I had not just turned from a scene beyond the pale of Nature, for on the ghastly

red-litten plain was moving a procession of beings in such a manner as none ever saw before

save in nightmares.

Half gliding, half floating in the air, the white-clad bog-wraiths were slowly retreating toward

the still waters and the island ruin in fantastic formations suggesting some ancient and

solemn ceremonial dance. Their waving translucent arms, guided by the detestable piping of

those unseen flutes, beckoned in uncanny rhythm to a throng of lurching labourers who

followed dog-like with blind, brainless, floundering steps as if dragged by a clumsy but

resistless daemon-will. As the naiads neared the bog, without altering their course, a new line

of stumbling stragglers zigzagged drunkenly out of the castle from some door far below my

window, groped sightlessly across the courtyard and through the intervening bit of village, and

joined the floundering column of labourers on the plain. Despite their distance below me I at

once knew they were the servants brought from the north, for I recognised the ugly and

unwieldy form of the cook, whose very absurdness had now become unutterably tragic. The

flutes piped horribly, and again I heard the beating of the drums from the direction of the

island ruin. Then silently and gracefully the naiads reached the water and melted one by one

into the ancient bog; while the line of followers, never checking their speed, splashed

awkwardly after them and vanished amidst a tiny vortex of unwholesome bubbles which I

could barely see in the scarlet light. And as the last pathetic straggler, the fat cook, sank

heavily out of sight in that sullen pool, the flutes and the drums grew silent, and the blinding

red rays from the ruins snapped instantaneously out, leaving the village of doom lone and

desolate in the wan beams of a new-risen moon.

My condition was now one of indescribable chaos. Not knowing whether I was mad or sane,

sleeping or waking, I was saved only by a merciful numbness. I believe I did ridiculous things

such as offering prayers to Artemis, Latona, Demeter, Persephone, and Plouton. All that I

recalled of a classic youth came to my lips as the horrors of the situation roused my deepest

superstitions. I felt that I had witnessed the death of a whole village, and knew I was alone in

the castle with Denys Barry, whose boldness had brought down a doom. As I thought of him

new terrors convulsed me, and I fell to the floor; not fainting, but physically helpless. Then I

felt the icy blast from the east window where the moon had risen, and began to hear the

shrieks in the castle far below me. Soon those shrieks had attained a magnitude and quality

which cannot be written of, and which make me faint as I think of them. All I can say is that

they came from something I had known as a friend.

At some time during this shocking period the cold wind and the screaming must have roused

me, for my next impression is of racing madly through inky rooms and corridors and out

across the courtyard into the hideous night. They found me at dawn wandering mindless near

Ballylough, but what unhinged me utterly was not any of the horrors I had seen or heard

before. What I muttered about as I came slowly out of the shadows was a pair of fantastic

incidents which occurred in my flight; incidents of no significance, yet which haunt me

unceasingly when I am alone in certain marshy places or in the moonlight.

As I fled from that accursed castle along the bog‘s edge I heard a new sound; common, yet

unlike any I had heard before at Kilderry. The stagnant waters, lately quite devoid of animal

life, now teemed with a horde of slimy enormous frogs which piped shrilly and incessantly in

tones strangely out of keeping with their size. They glistened bloated and green in the

moonbeams, and seemed to gaze up at the fount of light. I followed the gaze of one very fat

and ugly frog, and saw the second of the things which drove my senses away.

Stretching directly from the strange olden ruin on the far islet to the waning moon, my eyes

seemed to trace a beam of faint quivering radiance having no reflection in the waters of the

bog. And upward along that pallid path my fevered fancy pictured a thin shadow slowly

writhing; a vague contorted shadow struggling as if drawn by unseen daemons. Crazed as I

was, I saw in that awful shadow a monstrous resemblance—a nauseous, unbelievable

caricature—a blasphemous effigy of him who had been Denys Barry.

Return to Table of Contents

The Outsider

(1921)

That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe;

And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form

Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,

Were long be-nightmared.

—Keats.

Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. Wretched is

he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and

maddening rows of antique books, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque,

gigantic, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Such a lot

the gods gave to me—to me, the dazed, the disappointed; the barren, the broken. And yet I

am strangely content, and cling desperately to those sere memories, when my mind

momentarily threatens to reach beyond to the other.

I know not where I was born, save that the castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible; full

of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and

shadows. The stones in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and there

was an accursed smell everywhere, as of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. It was

never light, so that I used sometimes to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief; nor

was there any sun outdoors, since the terrible trees grew high above the topmost accessible

tower. There was one black tower which reached above the trees into the unknown outer sky,

but that was partly ruined and could not be ascended save by a well-nigh impossible climb up

the sheer wall, stone by stone.

I must have lived years in this place, but I cannot measure the time. Beings must have cared

for my needs, yet I cannot recall any person except myself; or anything alive but the noiseless

rats and bats and spiders. I think that whoever nursed me must have been shockingly aged,

since my first conception of a living person was that of something mockingly like myself, yet

distorted, shrivelled, and decaying like the castle. To me there was nothing grotesque in the

bones and skeletons that strowed some of the stone crypts deep down among the

foundations. I fantastically associated these things with every-day events, and thought them

more natural than the coloured pictures of living beings which I found in many of the mouldy

books. From such books I learned all that I know. No teacher urged or guided me, and I do

not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not even my own; for although I had

read of speech, I had never thought to try to speak aloud. My aspect was a matter equally

unthought of, for there were no mirrors in the castle, and I merely regarded myself by instinct

as akin to the youthful figures I saw drawn and painted in the books. I felt conscious of youth

because I remembered so little.

Outside, across the putrid moat and under the dark mute trees, I would often lie and dream for

hours about what I read in the books; and would longingly picture myself amidst gay crowds

in the sunny world beyond the endless forest. Once I tried to escape from the forest, but as I

went farther from the castle the shade grew denser and the air more filled with brooding fear;

so that I ran frantically back lest I lose my way in a labyrinth of nighted silence.

So through endless twilights I dreamed and waited, though I knew not what I waited for. Then

in the shadowy solitude my longing for light grew so frantic that I could rest no more, and I

lifted entreating hands to the single black ruined tower that reached above the forest into the

unknown outer sky. And at last I resolved to scale that tower, fall though I might; since it were

better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.

In the dank twilight I climbed the worn and aged stone stairs till I reached the level where they

ceased, and thereafter clung perilously to small footholds leading upward. Ghastly and terrible

was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock; black, ruined, and deserted, and sinister with startled

bats whose wings made no noise. But more ghastly and terrible still was the slowness of my

progress; for climb as I might, the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and a new chill as of

haunted and venerable mould assailed me. I shivered as I wondered why I did not reach the

light, and would have looked down had I dared. I fancied that night had come suddenly upon

me, and vainly groped with one free hand for a window embrasure, that I might peer out and

above, and try to judge the height I had attained.

All at once, after an infinity of awesome, sightless crawling up that concave and desperate

precipice, I felt my head touch a solid thing, and I knew I must have gained the roof, or at

least some kind of floor. In the darkness I raised my free hand and tested the barrier, finding it

stone and immovable. Then came a deadly circuit of the tower, clinging to whatever holds the

slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the barrier yielding, and I turned upward

again, pushing the slab or door with my head as I used both hands in my fearful ascent.

There was no light revealed above, and as my hands went higher I knew that my climb was

for the nonce ended; since the slab was the trap-door of an aperture leading to a level stone

surface of greater circumference than the lower tower, no doubt the floor of some lofty and

capacious observation chamber. I crawled through carefully, and tried to prevent the heavy

slab from falling back into place; but failed in the latter attempt. As I lay exhausted on the

stone floor I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, but hoped when necessary to pry it open again.

Believing I was now at a prodigious height, far above the accursed branches of the wood, I

dragged myself up from the floor and fumbled about for windows, that I might look for the first

time upon the sky, and the moon and stars of which I had read. But on every hand I was

disappointed; since all that I found were vast shelves of marble, bearing odious oblong boxes

of disturbing size. More and more I reflected, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide

in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the castle below. Then unexpectedly my

hands came upon a doorway, where hung a portal of stone, rough with strange chiselling.

Trying it, I found it locked; but with a supreme burst of strength I overcame all obstacles and

dragged it open inward. As I did so there came to me the purest ecstasy I have ever known;

for shining tranquilly through an ornate grating of iron, and down a short stone passageway of

steps that ascended from the newly found doorway, was the radiant full moon, which I had

never before seen save in dreams and in vague visions I dared not call memories.

Fancying now that I had attained the very pinnacle of the castle, I commenced to rush up the

few steps beyond the door; but the sudden veiling of the moon by a cloud caused me to

stumble, and I felt my way more slowly in the dark. It was still very dark when I reached the

grating—which I tried carefully and found unlocked, but which I did not open for fear of falling

from the amazing height to which I had climbed. Then the moon came out.

Most daemoniacal of all shocks is that of the abysmally unexpected and grotesquely

unbelievable. Nothing I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I now saw;

with the bizarre marvels that sight implied. The sight itself was as simple as it was stupefying,

for it was merely this: instead of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a lofty eminence,

there stretched around me on a level through the grating nothing less than the solid ground,

decked and diversified by marble slabs and columns, and overshadowed by an ancient stone

church, whose ruined spire gleamed spectrally in the moonlight.

Half unconscious, I opened the grating and staggered out upon the white gravel path that

stretched away in two directions. My mind, stunned and chaotic as it was, still held the frantic

craving for light; and not even the fantastic wonder which had happened could stay my

course. I neither knew nor cared whether my experience was insanity, dreaming, or magic;

but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost. I knew not who I was or what

I was, or what my surroundings might be; though as I continued to stumble along I became

conscious of a kind of fearsome latent memory that made my progress not wholly fortuitous. I

passed under an arch out of that region of slabs and columns, and wandered through the

open country; sometimes following the visible road, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread

across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient presence of a forgotten

road. Once I swam across a swift river where crumbling, mossy masonry told of a bridge long

vanished.

Over two hours must have passed before I reached what seemed to be my goal, a venerable

ivied castle in a thickly wooded park; maddeningly familiar, yet full of perplexing strangeness

to me. I saw that the moat was filled in, and that some of the well-known towers were

demolished; whilst new wings existed to confuse the beholder. But what I observed with chief

interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth

sound of the gayest revelry. Advancing to one of these I looked in and saw an oddly dressed

company, indeed; making merry, and speaking brightly to one another. I had never, seemingly,

heard human speech before; and could guess only vaguely what was said. Some of the faces

seemed to hold expressions that brought up incredibly remote recollections; others were

utterly alien.

I now stepped through the low window into the brilliantly lighted room, stepping as I did so

from my single bright moment of hope to my blackest convulsion of despair and realisation.

The nightmare was quick to come; for as I entered, there occurred immediately one of the

most terrifying demonstrations I had ever conceived. Scarcely had I crossed the sill when

there descended upon the whole company a sudden and unheralded fear of hideous intensity,

distorting every face and evoking the most horrible screams from nearly every throat. Flight

was universal, and in the clamour and panic several fell in a swoon and were dragged away

by their madly fleeing companions. Many covered their eyes with their hands, and plunged

blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape; overturning furniture and stumbling against the

walls before they managed to reach one of the many doors.

The cries were shocking; and as I stood in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening

to their vanishing echoes, I trembled at the thought of what might be lurking near me unseen.

At a casual inspection the room seemed deserted, but when I moved toward one of the

alcoves I thought I detected a presence there—a hint of motion beyond the golden-arched

doorway leading to another and somewhat similar room. As I approached the arch I began to

perceive the presence more clearly; and then, with the first and last sound I ever uttered—a

ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I beheld in full,

frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and unmentionable monstrosity which had

by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a herd of delirious fugitives.

I cannot even hint what it was like, for it was a compound of all that is unclean, uncanny,

unwelcome, abnormal, and detestable. It was the ghoulish shade of decay, antiquity, and

desolation; the putrid, dripping eidolon of unwholesome revelation; the awful baring of that

which the merciful earth should always hide. God knows it was not of this world—or no longer

of this world—yet to my horror I saw in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering,

abhorrent travesty on the human shape; and in its mouldy, disintegrating apparel an

unspeakable quality that chilled me even more.

I was almost paralysed, but not too much so to make a feeble effort toward flight; a backward

stumble which failed to break the spell in which the nameless, voiceless monster held me. My

eyes, bewitched by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, refused to close;

though they were mercifully blurred, and shewed the terrible object but indistinctly after the

first shock. I tried to raise my hand to shut out the sight, yet so stunned were my nerves that

my arm could not fully obey my will. The attempt, however, was enough to disturb my

balance; so that I had to stagger forward several steps to avoid falling. As I did so I became

suddenly and agonisingly aware of the nearness of the carrion thing, whose hideous hollow

breathing I half fancied I could hear. Nearly mad, I found myself yet able to throw out a hand

to ward off the foetid apparition which pressed so close; when in one cataclysmic second of

cosmic nightmarishness and hellish accident my fingers touched the rotting outstretched paw

of the monster beneath the golden arch.

I did not shriek, but all the fiendish ghouls that ride the night-wind shrieked for me as in that

same second there crashed down upon my mind a single and fleeting avalanche of soul-

annihilating memory. I knew in that second all that had been; I remembered beyond the

frightful castle and the trees, and recognised the altered edifice in which I now stood; I

recognised, most terrible of all, the unholy abomination that stood leering before me as I

withdrew my sullied fingers from its own.

But in the cosmos there is balm as well as bitterness, and that balm is nepenthe. In the

supreme horror of that second I forgot what had horrified me, and the burst of black memory

vanished in a chaos of echoing images. In a dream I fled from that haunted and accursed pile,

and ran swiftly and silently in the moonlight. When I returned to the churchyard place of

marble and went down the steps I found the stone trap-door immovable; but I was not sorry,

for I had hated the antique castle and the trees. Now I ride with the mocking and friendly

ghouls on the night-wind, and play by day amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the

sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the Nile. I know that light is not for me, save that of

the moon over the rock tombs of Neb, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris

beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the

bitterness of alienage.

For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this

century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my

fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and

touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass.

Return to Table of Contents

The Other Gods

(1921)

Atop the tallest of earth‘s peaks dwell the gods of earth, and suffer no man to tell that he hath

looked upon them. Lesser peaks they once inhabited; but ever the men from the plains would

scale the slopes of rock and snow, driving the gods to higher and higher mountains till now

only the last remains. When they left their older peaks they took with them all signs of

themselves; save once, it is said, when they left a carven image on the face of the mountain

which they called Ngranek.

But now they have betaken themselves to unknown Kadath in the cold waste where no man

treads, and are grown stern, having no higher peak whereto to flee at the coming of men.

They are grown stern, and where once they suffered men to displace them, they now forbid

men to come, or coming, to depart. It is well for men that they know not of Kadath in the cold

waste, else they would seek injudiciously to scale it.

Sometimes when earth‘s gods are homesick they visit in the still night the peaks where once

they dwelt, and weep softly as they try to play in the olden way on remembered slopes. Men

have felt the tears of the gods on white-capped Thurai, though they have thought it rain; and

have heard the sighs of the gods in the plaintive dawn-winds of Lerion. In cloud-ships the

gods are wont to travel, and wise cotters have legends that keep them from certain high

peaks at night when it is cloudy, for the gods are not lenient as of old.

In Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, once dwelt an old man avid to behold the gods of

earth; a man deeply learned in the seven cryptical books of Hsan, and familiar with the

Pnakotic Manuscripts of distant and frozen Lomar. His name was Barzai the Wise, and the

villagers tell of how he went up a mountain on the night of the strange eclipse.

Barzai knew so much of the gods that he could tell of their comings and goings, and guessed

so many of their secrets that he was deemed half a god himself. It was he who wisely advised

the burgesses of Ulthar when they passed their remarkable law against the slaying of cats,

and who first told the young priest Atal where it is that black cats go at midnight on St. John‘s

Eve. Barzai was learned in the lore of earth‘s gods, and had gained a desire to look upon their

faces. He believed that his great secret knowledge of gods could shield him from their wrath,

so resolved to go up to the summit of high and rocky Hatheg-Kla on a night when he knew the

gods would be there.

Hatheg-Kla is far in the stony desert beyond Hatheg, for which it is named, and rises like a

rock statue in a silent temple. Around its peak the mists play always mournfully, for mists are

the memories of the gods, and the gods loved Hatheg-Kla when they dwelt upon it in the old

days. Often the gods of earth visit Hatheg-Kla in their ships of cloud, casting pale vapours

over the slopes as they dance reminiscently on the summit under a clear moon. The villagers

of Hatheg say it is ill to climb Hatheg-Kla at any time, and deadly to climb it by night when

pale vapours hide the summit and the moon; but Barzai heeded them not when he came from

neighbouring Ulthar with the young priest Atal, who was his disciple. Atal was only the son of

an innkeeper, and was sometimes afraid; but Barzai‘s father had been a landgrave who dwelt

in an ancient castle, so he had no common superstition in his blood, and only laughed at the

fearful cotters.

Barzai and Atal went out of Hatheg into the stony desert despite the prayers of peasants, and

talked of earth‘s gods by their campfires at night. Many days they travelled, and from afar saw

lofty Hatheg-Kla with his aureole of mournful mist. On the thirteenth day they reached the

mountain‘s lonely base, and Atal spoke of his fears. But Barzai was old and learned and had

no fears, so led the way boldly up the slope that no man had scaled since the time of Sansu,

who is written of with fright in the mouldy Pnakotic Manuscripts.

The way was rocky, and made perilous by chasms, cliffs, and falling stones. Later it grew cold

and snowy; and Barzai and Atal often slipped and fell as they hewed and plodded upward

with staves and axes. Finally the air grew thin, and the sky changed colour, and the climbers

found it hard to breathe; but still they toiled up and up, marvelling at the strangeness of the

scene and thrilling at the thought of what would happen on the summit when the moon was

out and the pale vapours spread around. For three days they climbed higher, higher, and

higher toward the roof of the world; then they camped to wait for the clouding of the moon.

For four nights no clouds came, and the moon shone down cold through the thin mournful

mists around the silent pinnacle. Then on the fifth night, which was the night of the full moon,

Barzai saw some dense clouds far to the north, and stayed up with Atal to watch them draw

near. Thick and majestic they sailed, slowly and deliberately onward; ranging themselves

round the peak high above the watchers, and hiding the moon and the summit from view. For

a long hour the watchers gazed, whilst the vapours swirled and the screen of clouds grew

thicker and more restless. Barzai was wise in the lore of earth‘s gods, and listened hard for

certain sounds, but Atal felt the chill of the vapours and the awe of the night, and feared

much. And when Barzai began to climb higher and beckon eagerly, it was long before Atal

would follow.

So thick were the vapours that the way was hard, and though Atal followed on at last, he

could scarce see the grey shape of Barzai on the dim slope above in the clouded moonlight.

Barzai forged very far ahead, and seemed despite his age to climb more easily than Atal;

fearing not the steepness that began to grow too great for any save a strong and dauntless

man, nor pausing at wide black chasms that Atal scarce could leap. And so they went up

wildly over rocks and gulfs, slipping and stumbling, and sometimes awed at the vastness and

horrible silence of bleak ice pinnacles and mute granite steeps.

Very suddenly Barzai went out of Atal‘s sight, scaling a hideous cliff that seemed to bulge

outward and block the path for any climber not inspired of earth‘s gods. Atal was far below,

and planning what he should do when he reached the place, when curiously he noticed that

the light had grown strong, as if the cloudless peak and moonlit meeting-place of the gods

were very near. And as he scrambled on toward the bulging cliff and litten sky he felt fears

more shocking than any he had known before. Then through the high mists he heard the

voice of unseen Barzai shouting wildly in delight:

―I have heard the gods! I have heard earth‘s gods singing in revelry on Hatheg-Kla! The

voices of earth‘s gods are known to Barzai the Prophet! The mists are thin and the moon is

bright, and I shall see the gods dancing wildly on Hatheg-Kla that they loved in youth! The

wisdom of Barzai hath made him greater than earth‘s gods, and against his will their spells

and barriers are as naught; Barzai will behold the gods, the proud gods, the secret gods, the

gods of earth who spurn the sight of men!‖

Atal could not hear the voices Barzai heard, but he was now close to the bulging cliff and

scanning it for foot-holds. Then he heard Barzai‘s voice grow shriller and louder:

―The mists are very thin, and the moon casts shadows on the slope; the voices of earth‘s gods

are high and wild, and they fear the coming of Barzai the Wise, who is greater than they. . . .

The moon‘s light flickers, as earth‘s gods dance against it; I shall see the dancing forms of the

gods that leap and howl in the moonlight. . . . The light is dimmer and the gods are afraid. . . .‖

Whilst Barzai was shouting these things Atal felt a spectral change in the air, as if the laws of

earth were bowing to greater laws; for though the way was steeper than ever, the upward

path was now grown fearsomely easy, and the bulging cliff proved scarce an obstacle when

he reached it and slid perilously up its convex face. The light of the moon had strangely failed,

and as Atal plunged upward through the mists he heard Barzai the Wise shrieking in the

shadows:

―The moon is dark, and the gods dance in the night; there is terror in the sky, for upon the

moon hath sunk an eclipse foretold in no books of men or of earth‘s gods. . . . There is

unknown magic on Hatheg-Kla, for the screams of the frightened gods have turned to

laughter, and the slopes of ice shoot up endlessly into the black heavens whither I am

plunging. . . . Hei! Hei! At last! In the dim light I behold the gods of earth!”

And now Atal, slipping dizzily up over inconceivable steeps, heard in the dark a loathsome

laughing, mixed with such a cry as no man else ever heard save in the Phlegethon of

unrelatable nightmares; a cry wherein reverberated the horror and anguish of a haunted

lifetime packed into one atrocious moment:

―The other gods! The other gods! The gods of the outer hells that guard the feeble gods of

earth! . . . Look away! . . . Go back! . . . Do not see! . . . Do not see! . . . The vengeance of the

infinite abysses . . . That cursed, that damnable pit . . . Merciful gods of earth, I am falling into

the sky!”

And as Atal shut his eyes and stopped his ears and tried to jump downward against the

frightful pull from unknown heights, there resounded on Hatheg-Kla that terrible peal of

thunder which awaked the good cotters of the plains and the honest burgesses of Hatheg and

Nir and Ulthar, and caused them to behold through the clouds that strange eclipse of the

moon that no book ever predicted. And when the moon came out at last Atal was safe on the

lower snows of the mountain without sight of earth‘s gods, or of the other gods.

Now it is told in the mouldy Pnakotic Manuscripts that Sansu found naught but wordless ice

and rock when he climbed Hatheg-Kla in the youth of the world. Yet when the men of Ulthar

and Nir and Hatheg crushed their fears and scaled that haunted steep by day in search of

Barzai the Wise, they found graven in the naked stone of the summit a curious and

Cyclopean symbol fifty cubits wide, as if the rock had been riven by some titanic chisel. And

the symbol was like to one that learned men have discerned in those frightful parts of the

Pnakotic Manuscripts which are too ancient to be read. This they found.

Barzai the Wise they never found, nor could the holy priest Atal ever be persuaded to pray for

his soul‘s repose. Moreover, to this day the people of Ulthar and Nir and Hatheg fear eclipses,

and pray by night when pale vapours hide the mountain-top and the moon. And above the

mists on Hatheg-Kla earth‘s gods sometimes dance reminiscently; for they know they are

safe, and love to come from unknown Kadath in ships of cloud and play in the olden way, as

they did when earth was new and men not given to the climbing of inaccessible places.

Return to Table of Contents

The Music of Erich Zann

(1921)

I have examined maps of the city with the greatest care, yet have never again found the Rue

d‘Auseil. These maps have not been modern maps alone, for I know that names change. I

have, on the contrary, delved deeply into all the antiquities of the place; and have personally

explored every region, of whatever name, which could possibly answer to the street I knew as

the Rue d‘Auseil. But despite all I have done it remains an humiliating fact that I cannot find

the house, the street, or even the locality, where, during the last months of my impoverished

life as a student of metaphysics at the university, I heard the music of Erich Zann.

That my memory is broken, I do not wonder; for my health, physical and mental, was gravely

disturbed throughout the period of my residence in the Rue d‘Auseil, and I recall that I took

none of my few acquaintances there. But that I cannot find the place again is both singular

and perplexing; for it was within a half-hour‘s walk of the university and was distinguished by

peculiarities which could hardly be forgotten by anyone who had been there. I have never met

a person who has seen the Rue d‘Auseil.

The Rue d‘Auseil lay across a dark river bordered by precipitous brick blear-windowed

warehouses and spanned by a ponderous bridge of dark stone. It was always shadowy along

that river, as if the smoke of neighbouring factories shut out the sun perpetually. The river was

also odorous with evil stenches which I have never smelled elsewhere, and which may some

day help me to find it, since I should recognise them at once. Beyond the bridge were narrow

cobbled streets with rails; and then came the ascent, at first gradual, but incredibly steep as

the Rue d‘Auseil was reached.

I have never seen another street as narrow and steep as the Rue d‘Auseil. It was almost a

cliff, closed to all vehicles, consisting in several places of flights of steps, and ending at the

top in a lofty ivied wall. Its paving was irregular, sometimes stone slabs, sometimes

cobblestones, and sometimes bare earth with struggling greenish-grey vegetation. The

houses were tall, peaked-roofed, incredibly old, and crazily leaning backward, forward, and

sidewise. Occasionally an opposite pair, both leaning forward, almost met across the street

like an arch; and certainly they kept most of the light from the ground below. There were a few

overhead bridges from house to house across the street.

The inhabitants of that street impressed me peculiarly. At first I thought it was because they

were all silent and reticent; but later decided it was because they were all very old. I do not

know how I came to live on such a street, but I was not myself when I moved there. I had

been living in many poor places, always evicted for want of money; until at last I came upon

that tottering house in the Rue d‘Auseil, kept by the paralytic Blandot. It was the third house

from the top of the street, and by far the tallest of them all.

My room was on the fifth story; the only inhabited room there, since the house was almost

empty. On the night I arrived I heard strange music from the peaked garret overhead, and the

next day asked old Blandot about it. He told me it was an old German viol-player, a strange

dumb man who signed his name as Erich Zann, and who played evenings in a cheap theatre

orchestra; adding that Zann‘s desire to play in the night after his return from the theatre was

the reason he had chosen this lofty and isolated garret room, whose single gable window was

the only point on the street from which one could look over the terminating wall at the declivity

and panorama beyond.

Thereafter I heard Zann every night, and although he kept me awake, I was haunted by the

weirdness of his music. Knowing little of the art myself, I was yet certain that none of his

harmonies had any relation to music I had heard before; and concluded that he was a

composer of highly original genius. The longer I listened, the more I was fascinated, until after

a week I resolved to make the old man‘s acquaintance.

One night, as he was returning from his work, I intercepted Zann in the hallway and told him

that I would like to know him and be with him when he played. He was a small, lean, bent

person, with shabby clothes, blue eyes, grotesque, satyr-like face, and nearly bald head; and

at my first words seemed both angered and frightened. My obvious friendliness, however,

finally melted him; and he grudgingly motioned to me to follow him up the dark, creaking, and

rickety attic stairs. His room, one of only two in the steeply pitched garret, was on the west

side, toward the high wall that formed the upper end of the street. Its size was very great, and

seemed the greater because of its extraordinary bareness and neglect. Of furniture there was

only a narrow iron bedstead, a dingy washstand, a small table, a large bookcase, an iron

music-rack, and three old-fashioned chairs. Sheets of music were piled in disorder about the

floor. The walls were of bare boards, and had probably never known plaster; whilst the

abundance of dust and cobwebs made the place seem more deserted than inhabited.

Evidently Erich Zann‘s world of beauty lay in some far cosmos of the imagination.

Motioning me to sit down, the dumb man closed the door, turned the large wooden bolt, and

lighted a candle to augment the one he had brought with him. He now removed his viol from

its moth-eaten covering, and taking it, seated himself in the least uncomfortable of the chairs.

He did not employ the music-rack, but offering no choice and playing from memory,

enchanted me for over an hour with strains I had never heard before; strains which must have

been of his own devising. To describe their exact nature is impossible for one unversed in

music. They were a kind of fugue, with recurrent passages of the most captivating quality, but

to me were notable for the absence of any of the weird notes I had overheard from my room

below on other occasions.

Those haunting notes I had remembered, and had often hummed and whistled inaccurately to

myself; so when the player at length laid down his bow I asked him if he would render some

of them. As I began my request the wrinkled satyr-like face lost the bored placidity it had

possessed during the playing, and seemed to shew the same curious mixture of anger and

fright which I had noticed when first I accosted the old man. For a moment I was inclined to

use persuasion, regarding rather lightly the whims of senility; and even tried to awaken my

host‘s weirder mood by whistling a few of the strains to which I had listened the night before.

But I did not pursue this course for more than a moment; for when the dumb musician

recognised the whistled air his face grew suddenly distorted with an expression wholly

beyond analysis, and his long, cold, bony right hand reached out to stop my mouth and

silence the crude imitation. As he did this he further demonstrated his eccentricity by casting a

startled glance toward the lone curtained window, as if fearful of some intruder—a glance

doubly absurd, since the garret stood high and inaccessible above all the adjacent roofs, this

window being the only point on the steep street, as the concierge had told me, from which

one could see over the wall at the summit.

The old man‘s glance brought Blandot‘s remark to my mind, and with a certain capriciousness

I felt a wish to look out over the wide and dizzying panorama of moonlit roofs and city lights

beyond the hill-top, which of all the dwellers in the Rue d‘Auseil only this crabbed musician

could see. I moved toward the window and would have drawn aside the nondescript curtains,

when with a frightened rage even greater than before the dumb lodger was upon me again;

this time motioning with his head toward the door as he nervously strove to drag me thither

with both hands. Now thoroughly disgusted with my host, I ordered him to release me, and

told him I would go at once. His clutch relaxed, and as he saw my disgust and offence his

own anger seemed to subside. He tightened his relaxing grip, but this time in a friendly

manner; forcing me into a chair, then with an appearance of wistfulness crossing to the

littered table, where he wrote many words with a pencil in the laboured French of a foreigner.

The note which he finally handed me was an appeal for tolerance and forgiveness. Zann said

that he was old, lonely, and afflicted with strange fears and nervous disorders connected with

his music and with other things. He had enjoyed my listening to his music, and wished I would

come again and not mind his eccentricities. But he could not play to another his weird

harmonies, and could not bear hearing them from another; nor could he bear having anything

in his room touched by another. He had not known until our hallway conversation that I could

overhear his playing in my room, and now asked me if I would arrange with Blandot to take a

lower room where I could not hear him in the night. He would, he wrote, defray the difference

in rent.

As I sat deciphering the execrable French I felt more lenient toward the old man. He was a

victim of physical and nervous suffering, as was I; and my metaphysical studies had taught

me kindness. In the silence there came a slight sound from the window—the shutter must

have rattled in the night-wind—and for some reason I started almost as violently as did Erich

Zann. So when I had finished reading I shook my host by the hand, and departed as a friend.

The next day Blandot gave me a more expensive room on the third floor, between the

apartments of an aged money-lender and the room of a respectable upholsterer. There was

no one on the fourth floor.

It was not long before I found that Zann‘s eagerness for my company was not as great as it

had seemed while he was persuading me to move down from the fifth story. He did not ask

me to call on him, and when I did call he appeared uneasy and played listlessly. This was

always at night—in the day he slept and would admit no one. My liking for him did not grow,

though the attic room and the weird music seemed to hold an odd fascination for me. I had a

curious desire to look out of that window, over the wall and down the unseen slope at the

glittering roofs and spires which must lie outspread there. Once I went up to the garret during

theatre hours, when Zann was away, but the door was locked.

What I did succeed in doing was to overhear the nocturnal playing of the dumb old man. At

first I would tiptoe up to my old fifth floor, then I grew bold enough to climb the last creaking

staircase to the peaked garret. There in the narrow hall, outside the bolted door with the

covered keyhole, I often heard sounds which filled me with an indefinable dread—the dread of

vague wonder and brooding mystery. It was not that the sounds were hideous, for they were

not; but that they held vibrations suggesting nothing on this globe of earth, and that at certain

intervals they assumed a symphonic quality which I could hardly conceive as produced by

one player. Certainly, Erich Zann was a genius of wild power. As the weeks passed, the

playing grew wilder, whilst the old musician acquired an increasing haggardness and

furtiveness pitiful to behold. He now refused to admit me at any time, and shunned me

whenever we met on the stairs.

Then one night as I listened at the door I heard the shrieking viol swell into a chaotic babel of

sound; a pandemonium which would have led me to doubt my own shaking sanity had there

not come from behind that barred portal a piteous proof that the horror was real—the awful,

inarticulate cry which only a mute can utter, and which rises only in moments of the most

terrible fear or anguish. I knocked repeatedly at the door, but received no response. Afterward

I waited in the black hallway, shivering with cold and fear, till I heard the poor musician‘s

feeble effort to rise from the floor by the aid of a chair. Believing him just conscious after a

fainting fit, I renewed my rapping, at the same time calling out my name reassuringly. I heard

Zann stumble to the window and close both shutter and sash, then stumble to the door, which

he falteringly unfastened to admit me. This time his delight at having me present was real; for

his distorted face gleamed with relief while he clutched at my coat as a child clutches at its

mother‘s skirts.

Shaking pathetically, the old man forced me into a chair whilst he sank into another, beside

which his viol and bow lay carelessly on the floor. He sat for some time inactive, nodding

oddly, but having a paradoxical suggestion of intense and frightened listening. Subsequently

he seemed to be satisfied, and crossing to a chair by the table wrote a brief note, handed it to

me, and returned to the table, where he began to write rapidly and incessantly. The note

implored me in the name of mercy, and for the sake of my own curiosity, to wait where I was

while he prepared a full account in German of all the marvels and terrors which beset him. I

waited, and the dumb man‘s pencil flew.

It was perhaps an hour later, while I still waited and while the old musician‘s feverishly written

sheets still continued to pile up, that I saw Zann start as from the hint of a horrible shock.

Unmistakably he was looking at the curtained window and listening shudderingly. Then I half

fancied I heard a sound myself; though it was not a horrible sound, but rather an exquisitely

low and infinitely distant musical note, suggesting a player in one of the neighbouring houses,

or in some abode beyond the lofty wall over which I had never been able to look. Upon Zann

the effect was terrible, for dropping his pencil suddenly he rose, seized his viol, and

commenced to rend the night with the wildest playing I had ever heard from his bow save

when listening at the barred door.

It would be useless to describe the playing of Erich Zann on that dreadful night. It was more

horrible than anything I had ever overheard, because I could now see the expression of his

face, and could realise that this time the motive was stark fear. He was trying to make a noise;

to ward something off or drown something out—what, I could not imagine, awesome though I

felt it must be. The playing grew fantastic, delirious, and hysterical, yet kept to the last the

qualities of supreme genius which I knew this strange old man possessed. I recognised the

air—it was a wild Hungarian dance popular in the theatres, and I reflected for a moment that

this was the first time I had ever heard Zann play the work of another composer.

Louder and louder, wilder and wilder, mounted the shrieking and whining of that desperate

viol. The player was dripping with an uncanny perspiration and twisted like a monkey, always

looking frantically at the curtained window. In his frenzied strains I could almost see shadowy

satyrs and Bacchanals dancing and whirling insanely through seething abysses of clouds and

smoke and lightning. And then I thought I heard a shriller, steadier note that was not from the

viol; a calm, deliberate, purposeful, mocking note from far away in the west.

At this juncture the shutter began to rattle in a howling night-wind which had sprung up

outside as if in answer to the mad playing within. Zann‘s screaming viol now outdid itself,

emitting sounds I had never thought a viol could emit. The shutter rattled more loudly,

unfastened, and commenced slamming against the window. Then the glass broke shiveringly

under the persistent impacts, and the chill wind rushed in, making the candles sputter and

rustling the sheets of paper on the table where Zann had begun to write out his horrible

secret. I looked at Zann, and saw that he was past conscious observation. His blue eyes were

bulging, glassy, and sightless, and the frantic playing had become a blind, mechanical,

unrecognisable orgy that no pen could even suggest.

A sudden gust, stronger than the others, caught up the manuscript and bore it toward the

window. I followed the flying sheets in desperation, but they were gone before I reached the

demolished panes. Then I remembered my old wish to gaze from this window, the only

window in the Rue d‘Auseil from which one might see the slope beyond the wall, and the city

outspread beneath. It was very dark, but the city‘s lights always burned, and I expected to see

them there amidst the rain and wind. Yet when I looked from that highest of all gable windows,

looked while the candles sputtered and the insane viol howled with the night-wind, I saw no

city spread below, and no friendly lights gleaming from remembered streets, but only the

blackness of space illimitable; unimagined space alive with motion and music, and having no

semblance to anything on earth. And as I stood there looking in terror, the wind blew out both

the candles in that ancient peaked garret, leaving me in savage and impenetrable darkness

with chaos and pandemonium before me, and the daemon madness of that night-baying viol

behind me.

I staggered back in the dark, without the means of striking a light, crashing against the table,

overturning a chair, and finally groping my way to the place where the blackness screamed

with shocking music. To save myself and Erich Zann I could at least try, whatever the powers

opposed to me. Once I thought some chill thing brushed me, and I screamed, but my scream

could not be heard above that hideous viol. Suddenly out of the blackness the madly sawing

bow struck me, and I knew I was close to the player. I felt ahead, touched the back of Zann‘s

chair, and then found and shook his shoulder in an effort to bring him to his senses.

He did not respond, and still the viol shrieked on without slackening. I moved my hand to his

head, whose mechanical nodding I was able to stop, and shouted in his ear that we must both

flee from the unknown things of the night. But he neither answered me nor abated the frenzy

of his unutterable music, while all through the garret strange currents of wind seemed to

dance in the darkness and babel. When my hand touched his ear I shuddered, though I knew

not why—knew not why till I felt of the still face; the ice-cold, stiffened, unbreathing face

whose glassy eyes bulged uselessly into the void. And then, by some miracle finding the door

and the large wooden bolt, I plunged wildly away from that glassy-eyed thing in the dark, and

from the ghoulish howling of that accursed viol whose fury increased even as I plunged.

Leaping, floating, flying down those endless stairs through the dark house; racing mindlessly

out into the narrow, steep, and ancient street of steps and tottering houses; clattering down

steps and over cobbles to the lower streets and the putrid canyon-walled river; panting across

the great dark bridge to the broader, healthier streets and boulevards we know; all these are

terrible impressions that linger with me. And I recall that there was no wind, and that the moon

was out, and that all the lights of the city twinkled.

Despite my most careful searches and investigations, I have never since been able to find the

Rue d‘Auseil. But I am not wholly sorry; either for this or for the loss in undreamable abysses

of the closely written sheets which alone could have explained the music of Erich Zann.

Return to Table of Contents

Herbert West — Reanimator

(1922)

I. From the Dark

Of Herbert West, who was my friend in college and in after life, I can speak only with extreme

terror. This terror is not due altogether to the sinister manner of his recent disappearance, but

was engendered by the whole nature of his life-work, and first gained its acute form more than

seventeen years ago, when we were in the third year of our course at the Miskatonic

University Medical School in Arkham. While he was with me, the wonder and diabolism of his

experiments fascinated me utterly, and I was his closest companion. Now that he is gone and

the spell is broken, the actual fear is greater. Memories and possibilities are ever more

hideous than realities.

The first horrible incident of our acquaintance was the greatest shock I ever experienced, and

it is only with reluctance that I repeat it. As I have said, it happened when we were in the

medical school, where West had already made himself notorious through his wild theories on

the nature of death and the possibility of overcoming it artificially. His views, which were

widely ridiculed by the faculty and his fellow-students, hinged on the essentially mechanistic

nature of life; and concerned means for operating the organic machinery of mankind by

calculated chemical action after the failure of natural processes. In his experiments with

various animating solutions he had killed and treated immense numbers of rabbits, guinea-

pigs, cats, dogs, and monkeys, till he had become the prime nuisance of the college. Several

times he had actually obtained signs of life in animals supposedly dead; in many cases violent

signs; but he soon saw that the perfection of this process, if indeed possible, would

necessarily involve a lifetime of research. It likewise became clear that, since the same

solution never worked alike on different organic species, he would require human subjects for

further and more specialised progress. It was here that he first came into conflict with the

college authorities, and was debarred from future experiments by no less a dignitary than the

dean of the medical school himself—the learned and benevolent Dr. Allan Halsey, whose

work in behalf of the stricken is recalled by every old resident of Arkham.

I had always been exceptionally tolerant of West‘s pursuits, and we frequently discussed his

theories, whose ramifications and corollaries were almost infinite. Holding with Haeckel that

all life is a chemical and physical process, and that the so-called ―soul‖ is a myth, my friend

believed that artificial reanimation of the dead can depend only on the condition of the tissues;

and that unless actual decomposition has set in, a corpse fully equipped with organs may with

suitable measures be set going again in the peculiar fashion known as life. That the psychic

or intellectual life might be impaired by the slight deterioration of sensitive brain-cells which

even a short period of death would be apt to cause, West fully realised. It had at first been his

hope to find a reagent which would restore vitality before the actual advent of death, and only

repeated failures on animals had shewn him that the natural and artificial life-motions were

incompatible. He then sought extreme freshness in his specimens, injecting his solutions into

the blood immediately after the extinction of life. It was this circumstance which made the

professors so carelessly sceptical, for they felt that true death had not occurred in any case.

They did not stop to view the matter closely and reasoningly.

It was not long after the faculty had interdicted his work that West confided to me his

resolution to get fresh human bodies in some manner, and continue in secret the experiments

he could no longer perform openly. To hear him discussing ways and means was rather

ghastly, for at the college we had never procured anatomical specimens ourselves. Whenever

the morgue proved inadequate, two local negroes attended to this matter, and they were

seldom questioned. West was then a small, slender, spectacled youth with delicate features,

yellow hair, pale blue eyes, and a soft voice, and it was uncanny to hear him dwelling on the

relative merits of Christchurch Cemetery and the potter‘s field. We finally decided on the

potter‘s field, because practically every body in Christchurch was embalmed; a thing of course

ruinous to West‘s researches.

I was by this time his active and enthralled assistant, and helped him make all his decisions,

not only concerning the source of bodies but concerning a suitable place for our loathsome

work. It was I who thought of the deserted Chapman farmhouse beyond Meadow Hill, where

we fitted up on the ground floor an operating room and a laboratory, each with dark curtains to

conceal our midnight doings. The place was far from any road, and in sight of no other house,

yet precautions were none the less necessary; since rumours of strange lights, started by

chance nocturnal roamers, would soon bring disaster on our enterprise. It was agreed to call

the whole thing a chemical laboratory if discovery should occur. Gradually we equipped our

sinister haunt of science with materials either purchased in Boston or quietly borrowed from

the college—materials carefully made unrecognisable save to expert eyes—and provided

spades and picks for the many burials we should have to make in the cellar. At the college we

used an incinerator, but the apparatus was too costly for our unauthorised laboratory. Bodies

were always a nuisance—even the small guinea-pig bodies from the slight clandestine

experiments in West‘s room at the boarding-house.

We followed the local death-notices like ghouls, for our specimens demanded particular

qualities. What we wanted were corpses interred soon after death and without artificial

preservation; preferably free from malforming disease, and certainly with all organs present.

Accident victims were our best hope. Not for many weeks did we hear of anything suitable;

though we talked with morgue and hospital authorities, ostensibly in the college‘s interest, as

often as we could without exciting suspicion. We found that the college had first choice in

every case, so that it might be necessary to remain in Arkham during the summer, when only

the limited summer-school classes were held. In the end, though, luck favoured us; for one

day we heard of an almost ideal case in the potter‘s field; a brawny young workman drowned

only the morning before in Sumner‘s Pond, and buried at the town‘s expense without delay or

embalming. That afternoon we found the new grave, and determined to begin work soon after

midnight.

It was a repulsive task that we undertook in the black small hours, even though we lacked at

that time the special horror of graveyards which later experiences brought to us. We carried

spades and oil dark lanterns, for although electric torches were then manufactured, they were

not as satisfactory as the tungsten contrivances of today. The process of unearthing was slow

and sordid—it might have been gruesomely poetical if we had been artists instead of

scientists—and we were glad when our spades struck wood. When the pine box was fully

uncovered West scrambled down and removed the lid, dragging out and propping up the

contents. I reached down and hauled the contents out of the grave, and then both toiled hard

to restore the spot to its former appearance. The affair made us rather nervous, especially the

stiff form and vacant face of our first trophy, but we managed to remove all traces of our visit.

When we had patted down the last shovelful of earth we put the specimen in a canvas sack

and set out for the old Chapman place beyond Meadow Hill.

On an improvised dissecting-table in the old farmhouse, by the light of a powerful acetylene

lamp, the specimen was not very spectral looking. It had been a sturdy and apparently

unimaginative youth of wholesome plebeian type—large-framed, grey-eyed, and brown-

haired—a sound animal without psychological subtleties, and probably having vital processes

of the simplest and healthiest sort. Now, with the eyes closed, it looked more asleep than

dead; though the expert test of my friend soon left no doubt on that score. We had at last what

West had always longed for—a real dead man of the ideal kind, ready for the solution as

prepared according to the most careful calculations and theories for human use. The tension

on our part became very great. We knew that there was scarcely a chance for anything like

complete success, and could not avoid hideous fears at possible grotesque results of partial

animation. Especially were we apprehensive concerning the mind and impulses of the

creature, since in the space following death some of the more delicate cerebral cells might

well have suffered deterioration. I, myself, still held some curious notions about the traditional

―soul‖ of man, and felt an awe at the secrets that might be told by one returning from the

dead. I wondered what sights this placid youth might have seen in inaccessible spheres, and

what he could relate if fully restored to life. But my wonder was not overwhelming, since for

the most part I shared the materialism of my friend. He was calmer than I as he forced a large

quantity of his fluid into a vein of the body‘s arm, immediately binding the incision securely.

The waiting was gruesome, but West never faltered. Every now and then he applied his

stethoscope to the specimen, and bore the negative results philosophically. After about three-

quarters of an hour without the least sign of life he disappointedly pronounced the solution

inadequate, but determined to make the most of his opportunity and try one change in the

formula before disposing of his ghastly prize. We had that afternoon dug a grave in the cellar,

and would have to fill it by dawn—for although we had fixed a lock on the house we wished to

shun even the remotest risk of a ghoulish discovery. Besides, the body would not be even

approximately fresh the next night. So taking the solitary acetylene lamp into the adjacent

laboratory, we left our silent guest on the slab in the dark, and bent every energy to the mixing

of a new solution; the weighing and measuring supervised by West with an almost fanatical

care.

The awful event was very sudden, and wholly unexpected. I was pouring something from one

test-tube to another, and West was busy over the alcohol blast-lamp which had to answer for

a Bunsen burner in this gasless edifice, when from the pitch-black room we had left there

burst the most appalling and daemoniac succession of cries that either of us had ever heard.

Not more unutterable could have been the chaos of hellish sound if the pit itself had opened

to release the agony of the damned, for in one inconceivable cacophony was centred all the

supernal terror and unnatural despair of animate nature. Human it could not have been—it is

not in man to make such sounds—and without a thought of our late employment or its

possible discovery both West and I leaped to the nearest window like stricken animals;

overturning tubes, lamp, and retorts, and vaulting madly into the starred abyss of the rural

night. I think we screamed ourselves as we stumbled frantically toward the town, though as

we reached the outskirts we put on a semblance of restraint—just enough to seem like

belated revellers staggering home from a debauch.

We did not separate, but managed to get to West‘s room, where we whispered with the gas

up until dawn. By then we had calmed ourselves a little with rational theories and plans for

investigation, so that we could sleep through the day—classes being disregarded. But that

evening two items in the paper, wholly unrelated, made it again impossible for us to sleep.

The old deserted Chapman house had inexplicably burned to an amorphous heap of ashes;

that we could understand because of the upset lamp. Also, an attempt had been made to

disturb a new grave in the potter‘s field, as if by futile and spadeless clawing at the earth. That

we could not understand, for we had patted down the mould very carefully.

And for seventeen years after that West would look frequently over his shoulder, and

complain of fancied footsteps behind him. Now he has disappeared.

II. The Plague-Daemon

I shall never forget that hideous summer sixteen years ago, when like a noxious afrite from

the halls of Eblis typhoid stalked leeringly through Arkham. It is by that satanic scourge that

most recall the year, for truly terror brooded with bat-wings over the piles of coffins in the

tombs of Christchurch Cemetery; yet for me there is a greater horror in that time—a horror

known to me alone now that Herbert West has disappeared.

West and I were doing post-graduate work in summer classes at the medical school of

Miskatonic University, and my friend had attained a wide notoriety because of his experiments

leading toward the revivification of the dead. After the scientific slaughter of uncounted small

animals the freakish work had ostensibly stopped by order of our sceptical dean, Dr. Allan

Halsey; though West had continued to perform certain secret tests in his dingy boarding-

house room, and had on one terrible and unforgettable occasion taken a human body from its

grave in the potter‘s field to a deserted farmhouse beyond Meadow Hill.

I was with him on that odious occasion, and saw him inject into the still veins the elixir which

he thought would to some extent restore life‘s chemical and physical processes. It had ended

horribly—in a delirium of fear which we gradually came to attribute to our own overwrought

nerves—and West had never afterward been able to shake off a maddening sensation of

being haunted and hunted. The body had not been quite fresh enough; it is obvious that to

restore normal mental attributes a body must be very fresh indeed; and a burning of the old

house had prevented us from burying the thing. It would have been better if we could have

known it was underground.

After that experience West had dropped his researches for some time; but as the zeal of the

born scientist slowly returned, he again became importunate with the college faculty, pleading

for the use of the dissecting-room and of fresh human specimens for the work he regarded as

so overwhelmingly important. His pleas, however, were wholly in vain; for the decision of Dr.

Halsey was inflexible, and the other professors all endorsed the verdict of their leader. In the

radical theory of reanimation they saw nothing but the immature vagaries of a youthful

enthusiast whose slight form, yellow hair, spectacled blue eyes, and soft voice gave no hint of

the supernormal—almost diabolical—power of the cold brain within. I can see him now as he

was then—and I shiver. He grew sterner of face, but never elderly. And now Sefton Asylum

has had the mishap and West has vanished.

West clashed disagreeably with Dr. Halsey near the end of our last undergraduate term in a

wordy dispute that did less credit to him than to the kindly dean in point of courtesy. He felt

that he was needlessly and irrationally retarded in a supremely great work; a work which he

could of course conduct to suit himself in later years, but which he wished to begin while still

possessed of the exceptional facilities of the university. That the tradition-bound elders should

ignore his singular results on animals, and persist in their denial of the possibility of

reanimation, was inexpressibly disgusting and almost incomprehensible to a youth of West‘s

logical temperament. Only greater maturity could help him understand the chronic mental

limitations of the ―professor-doctor‖ type—the product of generations of pathetic Puritanism;

kindly, conscientious, and sometimes gentle and amiable, yet always narrow, intolerant,

custom-ridden, and lacking in perspective. Age has more charity for these incomplete yet

high-souled characters, whose worst real vice is timidity, and who are ultimately punished by

general ridicule for their intellectual sins—sins like Ptolemaism, Calvinism, anti-Darwinism,

anti-Nietzscheism, and every sort of Sabbatarianism and sumptuary legislation. West, young

despite his marvellous scientific acquirements, had scant patience with good Dr. Halsey and

his erudite colleagues; and nursed an increasing resentment, coupled with a desire to prove

his theories to these obtuse worthies in some striking and dramatic fashion. Like most youths,

he indulged in elaborate day-dreams of revenge, triumph, and final magnanimous

forgiveness.

And then had come the scourge, grinning and lethal, from the nightmare caverns of Tartarus.

West and I had graduated about the time of its beginning, but had remained for additional

work at the summer school, so that we were in Arkham when it broke with full daemoniac fury

upon the town. Though not as yet licenced physicians, we now had our degrees, and were

pressed frantically into public service as the numbers of the stricken grew. The situation was

almost past management, and deaths ensued too frequently for the local undertakers fully to

handle. Burials without embalming were made in rapid succession, and even the Christchurch

Cemetery receiving tomb was crammed with coffins of the unembalmed dead. This

circumstance was not without effect on West, who thought often of the irony of the situation—

so many fresh specimens, yet none for his persecuted researches! We were frightfully

overworked, and the terrific mental and nervous strain made my friend brood morbidly.

But West‘s gentle enemies were no less harassed with prostrating duties. College had all but

closed, and every doctor of the medical faculty was helping to fight the typhoid plague. Dr.

Halsey in particular had distinguished himself in sacrificing service, applying his extreme skill

with whole-hearted energy to cases which many others shunned because of danger or

apparent hopelessness. Before a month was over the fearless dean had become a popular

hero, though he seemed unconscious of his fame as he struggled to keep from collapsing

with physical fatigue and nervous exhaustion. West could not withhold admiration for the

fortitude of his foe, but because of this was even more determined to prove to him the truth of

his amazing doctrines. Taking advantage of the disorganisation of both college work and

municipal health regulations, he managed to get a recently deceased body smuggled into the

university dissecting-room one night, and in my presence injected a new modification of his

solution. The thing actually opened its eyes, but only stared at the ceiling with a look of soul-

petrifying horror before collapsing into an inertness from which nothing could rouse it. West

said it was not fresh enough—the hot summer air does not favour corpses. That time we were

almost caught before we incinerated the thing, and West doubted the advisability of repeating

his daring misuse of the college laboratory.

The peak of the epidemic was reached in August. West and I were almost dead, and Dr.

Halsey did die on the 14th. The students all attended the hasty funeral on the 15th, and

bought an impressive wreath, though the latter was quite overshadowed by the tributes sent

by wealthy Arkham citizens and by the municipality itself. It was almost a public affair, for the

dean had surely been a public benefactor. After the entombment we were all somewhat

depressed, and spent the afternoon at the bar of the Commercial House; where West, though

shaken by the death of his chief opponent, chilled the rest of us with references to his

notorious theories. Most of the students went home, or to various duties, as the evening

advanced; but West persuaded me to aid him in ―making a night of it‖. West‘s landlady saw us

arrive at his room about two in the morning, with a third man between us; and told her

husband that we had all evidently dined and wined rather well.

Apparently this acidulous matron was right; for about 3 a.m. the whole house was aroused by

cries coming from West‘s room, where when they broke down the door they found the two of

us unconscious on the blood-stained carpet, beaten, scratched, and mauled, and with the

broken remnants of West‘s bottles and instruments around us. Only an open window told

what had become of our assailant, and many wondered how he himself had fared after the

terrific leap from the second story to the lawn which he must have made. There were some

strange garments in the room, but West upon regaining consciousness said they did not

belong to the stranger, but were specimens collected for bacteriological analysis in the course

of investigations on the transmission of germ diseases. He ordered them burnt as soon as

possible in the capacious fireplace. To the police we both declared ignorance of our late

companion‘s identity. He was, West nervously said, a congenial stranger whom we had met at

some downtown bar of uncertain location. We had all been rather jovial, and West and I did

not wish to have our pugnacious companion hunted down.

That same night saw the beginning of the second Arkham horror—the horror that to me

eclipsed the plague itself. Christchurch Cemetery was the scene of a terrible killing; a

watchman having been clawed to death in a manner not only too hideous for description, but

raising a doubt as to the human agency of the deed. The victim had been seen alive

considerably after midnight—the dawn revealed the unutterable thing. The manager of a

circus at the neighbouring town of Bolton was questioned, but he swore that no beast had at

any time escaped from its cage. Those who found the body noted a trail of blood leading to

the receiving tomb, where a small pool of red lay on the concrete just outside the gate. A

fainter trail led away toward the woods, but it soon gave out.

The next night devils danced on the roofs of Arkham, and unnatural madness howled in the

wind. Through the fevered town had crept a curse which some said was greater than the

plague, and which some whispered was the embodied daemon-soul of the plague itself. Eight

houses were entered by a nameless thing which strewed red death in its wake—in all,

seventeen maimed and shapeless remnants of bodies were left behind by the voiceless,

sadistic monster that crept abroad. A few persons had half seen it in the dark, and said it was

white and like a malformed ape or anthropomorphic fiend. It had not left behind quite all that it

had attacked, for sometimes it had been hungry. The number it had killed was fourteen; three

of the bodies had been in stricken homes and had not been alive.

On the third night frantic bands of searchers, led by the police, captured it in a house on

Crane Street near the Miskatonic campus. They had organised the quest with care, keeping in

touch by means of volunteer telephone stations, and when someone in the college district had

reported hearing a scratching at a shuttered window, the net was quickly spread. On account

of the general alarm and precautions, there were only two more victims, and the capture was

effected without major casualties. The thing was finally stopped by a bullet, though not a fatal

one, and was rushed to the local hospital amidst universal excitement and loathing.

For it had been a man. This much was clear despite the nauseous eyes, the voiceless

simianism, and the daemoniac savagery. They dressed its wound and carted it to the asylum

at Sefton, where it beat its head against the walls of a padded cell for sixteen years—until the

recent mishap, when it escaped under circumstances that few like to mention. What had most

disgusted the searchers of Arkham was the thing they noticed when the monster‘s face was

cleaned—the mocking, unbelievable resemblance to a learned and self-sacrificing martyr who

had been entombed but three days before—the late Dr. Allan Halsey, public benefactor and

dean of the medical school of Miskatonic University.

To the vanished Herbert West and to me the disgust and horror were supreme. I shudder

tonight as I think of it; shudder even more than I did that morning when West muttered

through his bandages,

―Damn it, it wasn‘t quite fresh enough!‖

III. Six Shots by Midnight

It is uncommon to fire all six shots of a revolver with great suddenness when one would

probably be sufficient, but many things in the life of Herbert West were uncommon. It is, for

instance, not often that a young physician leaving college is obliged to conceal the principles

which guide his selection of a home and office, yet that was the case with Herbert West.

When he and I obtained our degrees at the medical school of Miskatonic University, and

sought to relieve our poverty by setting up as general practitioners, we took great care not to

say that we chose our house because it was fairly well isolated, and as near as possible to

the potter‘s field.

Reticence such as this is seldom without a cause, nor indeed was ours; for our requirements

were those resulting from a life-work distinctly unpopular. Outwardly we were doctors only, but

beneath the surface were aims of far greater and more terrible moment—for the essence of

Herbert West‘s existence was a quest amid black and forbidden realms of the unknown, in

which he hoped to uncover the secret of life and restore to perpetual animation the

graveyard‘s cold clay. Such a quest demands strange materials, among them fresh human

bodies; and in order to keep supplied with these indispensable things one must live quietly

and not far from a place of informal interment.

West and I had met in college, and I had been the only one to sympathise with his hideous

experiments. Gradually I had come to be his inseparable assistant, and now that we were out

of college we had to keep together. It was not easy to find a good opening for two doctors in

company, but finally the influence of the university secured us a practice in Bolton—a factory

town near Arkham, the seat of the college. The Bolton Worsted Mills are the largest in the

Miskatonic Valley, and their polyglot employees are never popular as patients with the local

physicians. We chose our house with the greatest care, seizing at last on a rather run-down

cottage near the end of Pond Street; five numbers from the closest neighbour, and separated

from the local potter‘s field by only a stretch of meadow land, bisected by a narrow neck of the

rather dense forest which lies to the north. The distance was greater than we wished, but we

could get no nearer house without going on the other side of the field, wholly out of the factory

district. We were not much displeased, however, since there were no people between us and

our sinister source of supplies. The walk was a trifle long, but we could haul our silent

specimens undisturbed.

Our practice was surprisingly large from the very first—large enough to please most young

doctors, and large enough to prove a bore and a burden to students whose real interest lay

elsewhere. The mill-hands were of somewhat turbulent inclinations; and besides their many

natural needs, their frequent clashes and stabbing affrays gave us plenty to do. But what

actually absorbed our minds was the secret laboratory we had fitted up in the cellar—the

laboratory with the long table under the electric lights, where in the small hours of the morning

we often injected West‘s various solutions into the veins of the things we dragged from the

potter‘s field. West was experimenting madly to find something which would start man‘s vital

motions anew after they had been stopped by the thing we call death, but had encountered

the most ghastly obstacles. The solution had to be differently compounded for different

types—what would serve for guinea-pigs would not serve for human beings, and different

human specimens required large modifications.

The bodies had to be exceedingly fresh, or the slight decomposition of brain tissue would

render perfect reanimation impossible. Indeed, the greatest problem was to get them fresh

enough—West had had horrible experiences during his secret college researches with

corpses of doubtful vintage. The results of partial or imperfect animation were much more

hideous than were the total failures, and we both held fearsome recollections of such things.

Ever since our first daemoniac session in the deserted farmhouse on Meadow Hill in Arkham,

we had felt a brooding menace; and West, though a calm, blond, blue-eyed scientific

automaton in most respects, often confessed to a shuddering sensation of stealthy pursuit.

He half felt that he was followed—a psychological delusion of shaken nerves, enhanced by

the undeniably disturbing fact that at least one of our reanimated specimens was still alive—a

frightful carnivorous thing in a padded cell at Sefton. Then there was another—our first—

whose exact fate we had never learned.

We had fair luck with specimens in Bolton—much better than in Arkham. We had not been

settled a week before we got an accident victim on the very night of burial, and made it open

its eyes with an amazingly rational expression before the solution failed. It had lost an arm—if

it had been a perfect body we might have succeeded better. Between then and the next

January we secured three more; one total failure, one case of marked muscular motion, and

one rather shivery thing—it rose of itself and uttered a sound. Then came a period when luck

was poor; interments fell off, and those that did occur were of specimens either too diseased

or too maimed for use. We kept track of all the deaths and their circumstances with

systematic care.

One March night, however, we unexpectedly obtained a specimen which did not come from

the potter‘s field. In Bolton the prevailing spirit of Puritanism had outlawed the sport of

boxing—with the usual result. Surreptitious and ill-conducted bouts among the mill-workers

were common, and occasionally professional talent of low grade was imported. This late

winter night there had been such a match; evidently with disastrous results, since two

timorous Poles had come to us with incoherently whispered entreaties to attend to a very

secret and desperate case. We followed them to an abandoned barn, where the remnants of

a crowd of frightened foreigners were watching a silent black form on the floor.

The match had been between Kid O‘Brien—a lubberly and now quaking youth with a most un-

Hibernian hooked nose—and Buck Robinson, ―The Harlem Smoke‖. The negro had been

knocked out, and a moment‘s examination shewed us that he would permanently remain so.

He was a loathsome, gorilla-like thing, with abnormally long arms which I could not help

calling fore legs, and a face that conjured up thoughts of unspeakable Congo secrets and

tom-tom poundings under an eerie moon. The body must have looked even worse in life—but

the world holds many ugly things. Fear was upon the whole pitiful crowd, for they did not

know what the law would exact of them if the affair were not hushed up; and they were

grateful when West, in spite of my involuntary shudders, offered to get rid of the thing

quietly—for a purpose I knew too well.

There was bright moonlight over the snowless landscape, but we dressed the thing and

carried it home between us through the deserted streets and meadows, as we had carried a

similar thing one horrible night in Arkham. We approached the house from the field in the rear,

took the specimen in the back door and down the cellar stairs, and prepared it for the usual

experiment. Our fear of the police was absurdly great, though we had timed our trip to avoid

the solitary patrolman of that section.

The result was wearily anticlimactic. Ghastly as our prize appeared, it was wholly

unresponsive to every solution we injected in its black arm; solutions prepared from

experience with white specimens only. So as the hour grew dangerously near to dawn, we did

as we had done with the others—dragged the thing across the meadows to the neck of the

woods near the potter‘s field, and buried it there in the best sort of grave the frozen ground

would furnish. The grave was not very deep, but fully as good as that of the previous

specimen—the thing which had risen of itself and uttered a sound. In the light of our dark

lanterns we carefully covered it with leaves and dead vines, fairly certain that the police would

never find it in a forest so dim and dense.

The next day I was increasingly apprehensive about the police, for a patient brought rumours

of a suspected fight and death. West had still another source of worry, for he had been called

in the afternoon to a case which ended very threateningly. An Italian woman had become

hysterical over her missing child—a lad of five who had strayed off early in the morning and

failed to appear for dinner—and had developed symptoms highly alarming in view of an

always weak heart. It was a very foolish hysteria, for the boy had often run away before; but

Italian peasants are exceedingly superstitious, and this woman seemed as much harassed by

omens as by facts. About seven o‘clock in the evening she had died, and her frantic husband

had made a frightful scene in his efforts to kill West, whom he wildly blamed for not saving her

life. Friends had held him when he drew a stiletto, but West departed amidst his inhuman

shrieks, curses, and oaths of vengeance. In his latest affliction the fellow seemed to have

forgotten his child, who was still missing as the night advanced. There was some talk of

searching the woods, but most of the family‘s friends were busy with the dead woman and the

screaming man. Altogether, the nervous strain upon West must have been tremendous.

Thoughts of the police and of the mad Italian both weighed heavily.

We retired about eleven, but I did not sleep well. Bolton had a surprisingly good police force

for so small a town, and I could not help fearing the mess which would ensue if the affair of

the night before were ever tracked down. It might mean the end of all our local work—and

perhaps prison for both West and me. I did not like those rumours of a fight which were

floating about. After the clock had struck three the moon shone in my eyes, but I turned over

without rising to pull down the shade. Then came the steady rattling at the back door.

I lay still and somewhat dazed, but before long heard West‘s rap on my door. He was clad in

dressing-gown and slippers, and had in his hands a revolver and an electric flashlight. From

the revolver I knew that he was thinking more of the crazed Italian than of the police.

―We‘d better both go,‖ he whispered. ―It wouldn‘t do not to answer it anyway, and it may be a

patient—it would be like one of those fools to try the back door.‖

So we both went down the stairs on tiptoe, with a fear partly justified and partly that which

comes only from the soul of the weird small hours. The rattling continued, growing somewhat

louder. When we reached the door I cautiously unbolted it and threw it open, and as the moon

streamed revealingly down on the form silhouetted there, West did a peculiar thing. Despite

the obvious danger of attracting notice and bringing down on our heads the dreaded police

investigation—a thing which after all was mercifully averted by the relative isolation of our

cottage—my friend suddenly, excitedly, and unnecessarily emptied all six chambers of his

revolver into the nocturnal visitor.

For that visitor was neither Italian nor policeman. Looming hideously against the spectral

moon was a gigantic misshapen thing not to be imagined save in nightmares—a glassy-eyed,

ink-black apparition nearly on all fours, covered with bits of mould, leaves, and vines, foul with

caked blood, and having between its glistening teeth a snow-white, terrible, cylindrical object

terminating in a tiny hand.

IV. The Scream of the Dead

The scream of a dead man gave to me that acute and added horror of Dr. Herbert West which

harassed the latter years of our companionship. It is natural that such a thing as a dead man‘s

scream should give horror, for it is obviously not a pleasing or ordinary occurrence; but I was

used to similar experiences, hence suffered on this occasion only because of a particular

circumstance. And, as I have implied, it was not of the dead man himself that I became afraid.

Herbert West, whose associate and assistant I was, possessed scientific interests far beyond

the usual routine of a village physician. That was why, when establishing his practice in

Bolton, he had chosen an isolated house near the potter‘s field. Briefly and brutally stated,

West‘s sole absorbing interest was a secret study of the phenomena of life and its cessation,

leading toward the reanimation of the dead through injections of an excitant solution. For this

ghastly experimenting it was necessary to have a constant supply of very fresh human

bodies; very fresh because even the least decay hopelessly damaged the brain structure, and

human because we found that the solution had to be compounded differently for different

types of organisms. Scores of rabbits and guinea-pigs had been killed and treated, but their

trail was a blind one. West had never fully succeeded because he had never been able to

secure a corpse sufficiently fresh. What he wanted were bodies from which vitality had only

just departed; bodies with every cell intact and capable of receiving again the impulse toward

that mode of motion called life. There was hope that this second and artificial life might be

made perpetual by repetitions of the injection, but we had learned that an ordinary natural life

would not respond to the action. To establish the artificial motion, natural life must be extinct—

the specimens must be very fresh, but genuinely dead.

The awesome quest had begun when West and I were students at the Miskatonic University

Medical School in Arkham, vividly conscious for the first time of the thoroughly mechanical

nature of life. That was seven years before, but West looked scarcely a day older now—he

was small, blond, clean-shaven, soft-voiced, and spectacled, with only an occasional flash of

a cold blue eye to tell of the hardening and growing fanaticism of his character under the

pressure of his terrible investigations. Our experiences had often been hideous in the

extreme; the results of defective reanimation, when lumps of graveyard clay had been

galvanised into morbid, unnatural, and brainless motion by various modifications of the vital

solution.

One thing had uttered a nerve-shattering scream; another had risen violently, beaten us both

to unconsciousness, and run amuck in a shocking way before it could be placed behind

asylum bars; still another, a loathsome African monstrosity, had clawed out of its shallow

grave and done a deed—West had had to shoot that object. We could not get bodies fresh

enough to shew any trace of reason when reanimated, so had perforce created nameless

horrors. It was disturbing to think that one, perhaps two, of our monsters still lived—that

thought haunted us shadowingly, till finally West disappeared under frightful circumstances.

But at the time of the scream in the cellar laboratory of the isolated Bolton cottage, our fears

were subordinate to our anxiety for extremely fresh specimens. West was more avid than I, so

that it almost seemed to me that he looked half-covetously at any very healthy living

physique.

It was in July, 1910, that the bad luck regarding specimens began to turn. I had been on a

long visit to my parents in Illinois, and upon my return found West in a state of singular

elation. He had, he told me excitedly, in all likelihood solved the problem of freshness through

an approach from an entirely new angle—that of artificial preservation. I had known that he

was working on a new and highly unusual embalming compound, and was not surprised that

it had turned out well; but until he explained the details I was rather puzzled as to how such a

compound could help in our work, since the objectionable staleness of the specimens was

largely due to delay occurring before we secured them. This, I now saw, West had clearly

recognised; creating his embalming compound for future rather than immediate use, and

trusting to fate to supply again some very recent and unburied corpse, as it had years before

when we obtained the negro killed in the Bolton prize-fight. At last fate had been kind, so that

on this occasion there lay in the secret cellar laboratory a corpse whose decay could not by

any possibility have begun. What would happen on reanimation, and whether we could hope

for a revival of mind and reason, West did not venture to predict. The experiment would be a

landmark in our studies, and he had saved the new body for my return, so that both might

share the spectacle in accustomed fashion.

West told me how he had obtained the specimen. It had been a vigorous man; a well-dressed

stranger just off the train on his way to transact some business with the Bolton Worsted Mills.

The walk through the town had been long, and by the time the traveller paused at our cottage

to ask the way to the factories his heart had become greatly overtaxed. He had refused a

stimulant, and had suddenly dropped dead only a moment later. The body, as might be

expected, seemed to West a heaven-sent gift. In his brief conversation the stranger had made

it clear that he was unknown in Bolton, and a search of his pockets subsequently revealed

him to be one Robert Leavitt of St. Louis, apparently without a family to make instant inquiries

about his disappearance. If this man could not be restored to life, no one would know of our

experiment. We buried our materials in a dense strip of woods between the house and the

potter‘s field. If, on the other hand, he could be restored, our fame would be brilliantly and

perpetually established. So without delay West had injected into the body‘s wrist the

compound which would hold it fresh for use after my arrival. The matter of the presumably

weak heart, which to my mind imperiled the success of our experiment, did not appear to

trouble West extensively. He hoped at last to obtain what he had never obtained before—a

rekindled spark of reason and perhaps a normal, living creature.

So on the night of July 18, 1910, Herbert West and I stood in the cellar laboratory and gazed

at a white, silent figure beneath the dazzling arc-light. The embalming compound had worked

uncannily well, for as I stared fascinatedly at the sturdy frame which had lain two weeks

without stiffening I was moved to seek West‘s assurance that the thing was really dead. This

assurance he gave readily enough; reminding me that the reanimating solution was never

used without careful tests as to life; since it could have no effect if any of the original vitality

were present. As West proceeded to take preliminary steps, I was impressed by the vast

intricacy of the new experiment; an intricacy so vast that he could trust no hand less delicate

than his own. Forbidding me to touch the body, he first injected a drug in the wrist just beside

the place his needle had punctured when injecting the embalming compound. This, he said,

was to neutralise the compound and release the system to a normal relaxation so that the

reanimating solution might freely work when injected. Slightly later, when a change and a

gentle tremor seemed to affect the dead limbs, West stuffed a pillow-like object violently over

the twitching face, not withdrawing it until the corpse appeared quiet and ready for our attempt

at reanimation. The pale enthusiast now applied some last perfunctory tests for absolute

lifelessness, withdrew satisfied, and finally injected into the left arm an accurately measured

amount of the vital elixir, prepared during the afternoon with a greater care than we had used

since college days, when our feats were new and groping. I cannot express the wild,

breathless suspense with which we waited for results on this first really fresh specimen—the

first we could reasonably expect to open its lips in rational speech, perhaps to tell of what it

had seen beyond the unfathomable abyss.

West was a materialist, believing in no soul and attributing all the working of consciousness to

bodily phenomena; consequently he looked for no revelation of hideous secrets from gulfs

and caverns beyond death‘s barrier. I did not wholly disagree with him theoretically, yet held

vague instinctive remnants of the primitive faith of my forefathers; so that I could not help

eyeing the corpse with a certain amount of awe and terrible expectation. Besides—I could not

extract from my memory that hideous, inhuman shriek we heard on the night we tried our first

experiment in the deserted farmhouse at Arkham.

Very little time had elapsed before I saw the attempt was not to be a total failure. A touch of

colour came to cheeks hitherto chalk-white, and spread out under the curiously ample stubble

of sandy beard. West, who had his hand on the pulse of the left wrist, suddenly nodded

significantly; and almost simultaneously a mist appeared on the mirror inclined above the

body‘s mouth. There followed a few spasmodic muscular motions, and then an audible

breathing and visible motion of the chest. I looked at the closed eyelids, and thought I

detected a quivering. Then the lids opened, shewing eyes which were grey, calm, and alive,

but still unintelligent and not even curious.

In a moment of fantastic whim I whispered questions to the reddening ears; questions of other

worlds of which the memory might still be present. Subsequent terror drove them from my

mind, but I think the last one, which I repeated, was: ―Where have you been?‖ I do not yet

know whether I was answered or not, for no sound came from the well-shaped mouth; but I

do know that at that moment I firmly thought the thin lips moved silently, forming syllables I

would have vocalised as ―only now‖ if that phrase had possessed any sense or relevancy. At

that moment, as I say, I was elated with the conviction that the one great goal had been

attained; and that for the first time a reanimated corpse had uttered distinct words impelled by

actual reason. In the next moment there was no doubt about the triumph; no doubt that the

solution had truly accomplished, at least temporarily, its full mission of restoring rational and

articulate life to the dead. But in that triumph there came to me the greatest of all horrors—not

horror of the thing that spoke, but of the deed that I had witnessed and of the man with whom

my professional fortunes were joined.

For that very fresh body, at last writhing into full and terrifying consciousness with eyes dilated

at the memory of its last scene on earth, threw out its frantic hands in a life and death struggle

with the air; and suddenly collapsing into a second and final dissolution from which there

could be no return, screamed out the cry that will ring eternally in my aching brain:

―Help! Keep off, you cursed little tow-head fiend—keep that damned needle away from me!‖

V. The Horror from the Shadows

Many men have related hideous things, not mentioned in print, which happened on the

battlefields of the Great War. Some of these things have made me faint, others have

convulsed me with devastating nausea, while still others have made me tremble and look

behind me in the dark; yet despite the worst of them I believe I can myself relate the most

hideous thing of all—the shocking, the unnatural, the unbelievable horror from the shadows.

In 1915 I was a physician with the rank of First Lieutenant in a Canadian regiment in

Flanders, one of many Americans to precede the government itself into the gigantic struggle. I

had not entered the army on my own initiative, but rather as a natural result of the enlistment

of the man whose indispensable assistant I was—the celebrated Boston surgical specialist,

Dr. Herbert West. Dr. West had been avid for a chance to serve as surgeon in a great war,

and when the chance had come he carried me with him almost against my will. There were

reasons why I would have been glad to let the war separate us; reasons why I found the

practice of medicine and the companionship of West more and more irritating; but when he

had gone to Ottawa and through a colleague‘s influence secured a medical commission as

Major, I could not resist the imperious persuasion of one determined that I should accompany

him in my usual capacity.

When I say that Dr. West was avid to serve in battle, I do not mean to imply that he was either

naturally warlike or anxious for the safety of civilisation. Always an ice-cold intellectual

machine; slight, blond, blue-eyed, and spectacled; I think he secretly sneered at my

occasional martial enthusiasms and censures of supine neutrality. There was, however,

something he wanted in embattled Flanders; and in order to secure it he had to assume a

military exterior. What he wanted was not a thing which many persons want, but something

connected with the peculiar branch of medical science which he had chosen quite

clandestinely to follow, and in which he had achieved amazing and occasionally hideous

results. It was, in fact, nothing more or less than an abundant supply of freshly killed men in

every stage of dismemberment.

Herbert West needed fresh bodies because his life-work was the reanimation of the dead.

This work was not known to the fashionable clientele who had so swiftly built up his fame after

his arrival in Boston; but was only too well known to me, who had been his closest friend and

sole assistant since the old days in Miskatonic University Medical School at Arkham. It was in

those college days that he had begun his terrible experiments, first on small animals and then

on human bodies shockingly obtained. There was a solution which he injected into the veins

of dead things, and if they were fresh enough they responded in strange ways. He had had

much trouble in discovering the proper formula, for each type of organism was found to need

a stimulus especially adapted to it. Terror stalked him when he reflected on his partial failures;

nameless things resulting from imperfect solutions or from bodies insufficiently fresh. A certain

number of these failures had remained alive—one was in an asylum while others had

vanished—and as he thought of conceivable yet virtually impossible eventualities he often

shivered beneath his usual stolidity.

West had soon learned that absolute freshness was the prime requisite for useful specimens,

and had accordingly resorted to frightful and unnatural expedients in body-snatching. In

college, and during our early practice together in the factory town of Bolton, my attitude

toward him had been largely one of fascinated admiration; but as his boldness in methods

grew, I began to develop a gnawing fear. I did not like the way he looked at healthy living

bodies; and then there came a nightmarish session in the cellar laboratory when I learned that

a certain specimen had been a living body when he secured it. That was the first time he had

ever been able to revive the quality of rational thought in a corpse; and his success, obtained

at such a loathsome cost, had completely hardened him.

Of his methods in the intervening five years I dare not speak. I was held to him by sheer force

of fear, and witnessed sights that no human tongue could repeat. Gradually I came to find

Herbert West himself more horrible than anything he did—that was when it dawned on me

that his once normal scientific zeal for prolonging life had subtly degenerated into a mere

morbid and ghoulish curiosity and secret sense of charnel picturesqueness. His interest

became a hellish and perverse addiction to the repellently and fiendishly abnormal; he

gloated calmly over artificial monstrosities which would make most healthy men drop dead

from fright and disgust; he became, behind his pallid intellectuality, a fastidious Baudelaire of

physical experiment—a languid Elagabalus of the tombs.

Dangers he met unflinchingly; crimes he committed unmoved. I think the climax came when

he had proved his point that rational life can be restored, and had sought new worlds to

conquer by experimenting on the reanimation of detached parts of bodies. He had wild and

original ideas on the independent vital properties of organic cells and nerve-tissue separated

from natural physiological systems; and achieved some hideous preliminary results in the

form of never-dying, artificially nourished tissue obtained from the nearly hatched eggs of an

indescribable tropical reptile. Two biological points he was exceedingly anxious to settle—first,

whether any amount of consciousness and rational action be possible without the brain,

proceeding from the spinal cord and various nerve-centres; and second, whether any kind of

ethereal, intangible relation distinct from the material cells may exist to link the surgically

separated parts of what has previously been a single living organism. All this research work

required a prodigious supply of freshly slaughtered human flesh—and that was why Herbert

West had entered the Great War.

The phantasmal, unmentionable thing occurred one midnight late in March, 1915, in a field

hospital behind the lines at St. Eloi. I wonder even now if it could have been other than a

daemoniac dream of delirium. West had a private laboratory in an east room of the barn-like

temporary edifice, assigned him on his plea that he was devising new and radical methods for

the treatment of hitherto hopeless cases of maiming. There he worked like a butcher in the

midst of his gory wares—I could never get used to the levity with which he handled and

classified certain things. At times he actually did perform marvels of surgery for the soldiers;

but his chief delights were of a less public and philanthropic kind, requiring many explanations

of sounds which seemed peculiar even amidst that babel of the damned. Among these

sounds were frequent revolver-shots—surely not uncommon on a battlefield, but distinctly

uncommon in an hospital. Dr. West‘s reanimated specimens were not meant for long

existence or a large audience. Besides human tissue, West employed much of the reptile

embryo tissue which he had cultivated with such singular results. It was better than human

material for maintaining life in organless fragments, and that was now my friend‘s chief

activity. In a dark corner of the laboratory, over a queer incubating burner, he kept a large

covered vat full of this reptilian cell-matter; which multiplied and grew puffily and hideously.

On the night of which I speak we had a splendid new specimen—a man at once physically

powerful and of such high mentality that a sensitive nervous system was assured. It was

rather ironic, for he was the officer who had helped West to his commission, and who was

now to have been our associate. Moreover, he had in the past secretly studied the theory of

reanimation to some extent under West. Major Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee, D.S.O., was

the greatest surgeon in our division, and had been hastily assigned to the St. Eloi sector when

news of the heavy fighting reached headquarters. He had come in an aëroplane piloted by the

intrepid Lieut. Ronald Hill, only to be shot down when directly over his destination. The fall

had been spectacular and awful; Hill was unrecognisable afterward, but the wreck yielded up

the great surgeon in a nearly decapitated but otherwise intact condition. West had greedily

seized the lifeless thing which had once been his friend and fellow-scholar; and I shuddered

when he finished severing the head, placed it in his hellish vat of pulpy reptile-tissue to

preserve it for future experiments, and proceeded to treat the decapitated body on the

operating table. He injected new blood, joined certain veins, arteries, and nerves at the

headless neck, and closed the ghastly aperture with engrafted skin from an unidentified

specimen which had borne an officer‘s uniform. I knew what he wanted—to see if this highly

organised body could exhibit, without its head, any of the signs of mental life which had

distinguished Sir Eric Moreland Clapham-Lee. Once a student of reanimation, this silent trunk

was now gruesomely called upon to exemplify it.

I can still see Herbert West under the sinister electric light as he injected his reanimating

solution into the arm of the headless body. The scene I cannot describe—I should faint if I

tried it, for there is madness in a room full of classified charnel things, with blood and lesser

human debris almost ankle-deep on the slimy floor, and with hideous reptilian abnormalities

sprouting, bubbling, and baking over a winking bluish-green spectre of dim flame in a far

corner of black shadows.

The specimen, as West repeatedly observed, had a splendid nervous system. Much was

expected of it; and as a few twitching motions began to appear, I could see the feverish

interest on West‘s face. He was ready, I think, to see proof of his increasingly strong opinion

that consciousness, reason, and personality can exist independently of the brain—that man

has no central connective spirit, but is merely a machine of nervous matter, each section

more or less complete in itself. In one triumphant demonstration West was about to relegate

the mystery of life to the category of myth. The body now twitched more vigorously, and

beneath our avid eyes commenced to heave in a frightful way. The arms stirred disquietingly,

the legs drew up, and various muscles contracted in a repulsive kind of writhing. Then the

headless thing threw out its arms in a gesture which was unmistakably one of desperation—

an intelligent desperation apparently sufficient to prove every theory of Herbert West.

Certainly, the nerves were recalling the man‘s last act in life; the struggle to get free of the

falling aëroplane.

What followed, I shall never positively know. It may have been wholly an hallucination from

the shock caused at that instant by the sudden and complete destruction of the building in a

cataclysm of German shell-fire—who can gainsay it, since West and I were the only proved

survivors? West liked to think that before his recent disappearance, but there were times

when he could not; for it was queer that we both had the same hallucination. The hideous

occurrence itself was very simple, notable only for what it implied.

The body on the table had risen with a blind and terrible groping, and we had heard a sound. I

should not call that sound a voice, for it was too awful. And yet its timbre was not the most

awful thing about it. Neither was its message—it had merely screamed, ―Jump, Ronald, for

God‘s sake, jump!‖ The awful thing was its source.

For it had come from the large covered vat in that ghoulish corner of crawling black shadows.

VI. The Tomb-Legions

When Dr. Herbert West disappeared a year ago, the Boston police questioned me closely.

They suspected that I was holding something back, and perhaps suspected graver things; but

I could not tell them the truth because they would not have believed it. They knew, indeed,

that West had been connected with activities beyond the credence of ordinary men; for his

hideous experiments in the reanimation of dead bodies had long been too extensive to admit

of perfect secrecy; but the final soul-shattering catastrophe held elements of daemoniac

phantasy which make even me doubt the reality of what I saw.

I was West‘s closest friend and only confidential assistant. We had met years before, in

medical school, and from the first I had shared his terrible researches. He had slowly tried to

perfect a solution which, injected into the veins of the newly deceased, would restore life; a

labour demanding an abundance of fresh corpses and therefore involving the most unnatural

actions. Still more shocking were the products of some of the experiments—grisly masses of

flesh that had been dead, but that West waked to a blind, brainless, nauseous animation.

These were the usual results, for in order to reawaken the mind it was necessary to have

specimens so absolutely fresh that no decay could possibly affect the delicate brain-cells.

This need for very fresh corpses had been West‘s moral undoing. They were hard to get, and

one awful day he had secured his specimen while it was still alive and vigorous. A struggle, a

needle, and a powerful alkaloid had transformed it to a very fresh corpse, and the experiment

had succeeded for a brief and memorable moment; but West had emerged with a soul

calloused and seared, and a hardened eye which sometimes glanced with a kind of hideous

and calculating appraisal at men of especially sensitive brain and especially vigorous

physique. Toward the last I became acutely afraid of West, for he began to look at me that

way. People did not seem to notice his glances, but they noticed my fear; and after his

disappearance used that as a basis for some absurd suspicions.

West, in reality, was more afraid than I; for his abominable pursuits entailed a life of

furtiveness and dread of every shadow. Partly it was the police he feared; but sometimes his

nervousness was deeper and more nebulous, touching on certain indescribable things into

which he had injected a morbid life, and from which he had not seen that life depart. He

usually finished his experiments with a revolver, but a few times he had not been quick

enough. There was that first specimen on whose rifled grave marks of clawing were later

seen. There was also that Arkham professor‘s body which had done cannibal things before it

had been captured and thrust unidentified into a madhouse cell at Sefton, where it beat the

walls for sixteen years. Most of the other possibly surviving results were things less easy to

speak of—for in later years West‘s scientific zeal had degenerated to an unhealthy and

fantastic mania, and he had spent his chief skill in vitalising not entire human bodies but

isolated parts of bodies, or parts joined to organic matter other than human. It had become

fiendishly disgusting by the time he disappeared; many of the experiments could not even be

hinted at in print. The Great War, through which both of us served as surgeons, had

intensified this side of West.

In saying that West‘s fear of his specimens was nebulous, I have in mind particularly its

complex nature. Part of it came merely from knowing of the existence of such nameless

monsters, while another part arose from apprehension of the bodily harm they might under

certain circumstances do him. Their disappearance added horror to the situation—of them all

West knew the whereabouts of only one, the pitiful asylum thing. Then there was a more

subtle fear—a very fantastic sensation resulting from a curious experiment in the Canadian

army in 1915. West, in the midst of a severe battle, had reanimated Major Sir Eric Moreland

Clapham-Lee, D.S.O., a fellow-physician who knew about his experiments and could have

duplicated them. The head had been removed, so that the possibilities of quasi-intelligent life

in the trunk might be investigated. Just as the building was wiped out by a German shell,

there had been a success. The trunk had moved intelligently; and, unbelievable to relate, we

were both sickeningly sure that articulate sounds had come from the detached head as it lay

in a shadowy corner of the laboratory. The shell had been merciful, in a way—but West could

never feel as certain as he wished, that we two were the only survivors. He used to make

shuddering conjectures about the possible actions of a headless physician with the power of

reanimating the dead.

West‘s last quarters were in a venerable house of much elegance, overlooking one of the

oldest burying-grounds in Boston. He had chosen the place for purely symbolic and

fantastically aesthetic reasons, since most of the interments were of the colonial period and

therefore of little use to a scientist seeking very fresh bodies. The laboratory was in a sub-

cellar secretly constructed by imported workmen, and contained a huge incinerator for the

quiet and complete disposal of such bodies, or fragments and synthetic mockeries of bodies,

as might remain from the morbid experiments and unhallowed amusements of the owner.

During the excavation of this cellar the workmen had struck some exceedingly ancient

masonry; undoubtedly connected with the old burying-ground, yet far too deep to correspond

with any known sepulchre therein. After a number of calculations West decided that it

represented some secret chamber beneath the tomb of the Averills, where the last interment

had been made in 1768. I was with him when he studied the nitrous, dripping walls laid bare

by the spades and mattocks of the men, and was prepared for the gruesome thrill which

would attend the uncovering of centuried grave-secrets; but for the first time West‘s new

timidity conquered his natural curiosity, and he betrayed his degenerating fibre by ordering the

masonry left intact and plastered over. Thus it remained till that final hellish night; part of the

walls of the secret laboratory. I speak of West‘s decadence, but must add that it was a purely

mental and intangible thing. Outwardly he was the same to the last—calm, cold, slight, and

yellow-haired, with spectacled blue eyes and a general aspect of youth which years and fears

seemed never to change. He seemed calm even when he thought of that clawed grave and

looked over his shoulder; even when he thought of the carnivorous thing that gnawed and

pawed at Sefton bars.

The end of Herbert West began one evening in our joint study when he was dividing his

curious glance between the newspaper and me. A strange headline item had struck at him

from the crumpled pages, and a nameless titan claw had seemed to reach down through

sixteen years. Something fearsome and incredible had happened at Sefton Asylum fifty miles

away, stunning the neighbourhood and baffling the police. In the small hours of the morning a

body of silent men had entered the grounds and their leader had aroused the attendants. He

was a menacing military figure who talked without moving his lips and whose voice seemed

almost ventriloquially connected with an immense black case he carried. His expressionless

face was handsome to the point of radiant beauty, but had shocked the superintendent when

the hall light fell on it—for it was a wax face with eyes of painted glass. Some nameless

accident had befallen this man. A larger man guided his steps; a repellent hulk whose bluish

face seemed half eaten away by some unknown malady. The speaker had asked for the

custody of the cannibal monster committed from Arkham sixteen years before; and upon

being refused, gave a signal which precipitated a shocking riot. The fiends had beaten,

trampled, and bitten every attendant who did not flee; killing four and finally succeeding in the

liberation of the monster. Those victims who could recall the event without hysteria swore that

the creatures had acted less like men than like unthinkable automata guided by the wax-faced

leader. By the time help could be summoned, every trace of the men and of their mad charge

had vanished.

From the hour of reading this item until midnight, West sat almost paralysed. At midnight the

doorbell rang, startling him fearfully. All the servants were asleep in the attic, so I answered

the bell. As I have told the police, there was no wagon in the street; but only a group of

strange-looking figures bearing a large square box which they deposited in the hallway after

one of them had grunted in a highly unnatural voice, ―Express—prepaid.‖ They filed out of the

house with a jerky tread, and as I watched them go I had an odd idea that they were turning

toward the ancient cemetery on which the back of the house abutted. When I slammed the

door after them West came downstairs and looked at the box. It was about two feet square,

and bore West‘s correct name and present address. It also bore the inscription, ―From Eric

Moreland Clapham-Lee, St. Eloi, Flanders‖. Six years before, in Flanders, a shelled hospital

had fallen upon the headless reanimated trunk of Dr. Clapham-Lee, and upon the detached

head which—perhaps—had uttered articulate sounds.

West was not even excited now. His condition was more ghastly. Quickly he said, ―It‘s the

finish—but let‘s incinerate—this.‖ We carried the thing down to the laboratory—listening. I do

not remember many particulars—you can imagine my state of mind—but it is a vicious lie to

say it was Herbert West‘s body which I put into the incinerator. We both inserted the whole

unopened wooden box, closed the door, and started the electricity. Nor did any sound come

from the box, after all.

It was West who first noticed the falling plaster on that part of the wall where the ancient tomb

masonry had been covered up. I was going to run, but he stopped me. Then I saw a small

black aperture, felt a ghoulish wind of ice, and smelled the charnel bowels of a putrescent

earth. There was no sound, but just then the electric lights went out and I saw outlined against

some phosphorescence of the nether world a horde of silent toiling things which only

insanity—or worse—could create. Their outlines were human, semi-human, fractionally

human, and not human at all—the horde was grotesquely heterogeneous. They were

removing the stones quietly, one by one, from the centuried wall. And then, as the breach

became large enough, they came out into the laboratory in single file; led by a stalking thing

with a beautiful head made of wax. A sort of mad-eyed monstrosity behind the leader seized

on Herbert West. West did not resist or utter a sound. Then they all sprang at him and tore

him to pieces before my eyes, bearing the fragments away into that subterranean vault of

fabulous abominations. West‘s head was carried off by the wax-headed leader, who wore a

Canadian officer‘s uniform. As it disappeared I saw that the blue eyes behind the spectacles

were hideously blazing with their first touch of frantic, visible emotion.

Servants found me unconscious in the morning. West was gone. The incinerator contained

only unidentifiable ashes. Detectives have questioned me, but what can I say? The Sefton

tragedy they will not connect with West; not that, nor the men with the box, whose existence

they deny. I told them of the vault, and they pointed to the unbroken plaster wall and laughed.

So I told them no more. They imply that I am a madman or a murderer—probably I am mad.

But I might not be mad if those accursed tomb-legions had not been so silent.

Return to Table of Contents

Hypnos

(1922)

To S. L.

―Apropos of sleep, that sinister adventure of all our nights, we may say that men go

to bed daily with an audacity that would be incomprehensible if we did not know

that it is the result of ignorance of the danger.‖

—Baudelaire.

May the merciful gods, if indeed there be such, guard those hours when no power of the will,

or drug that the cunning of man devises, can keep me from the chasm of sleep. Death is

merciful, for there is no return therefrom, but with him who has come back out of the

nethermost chambers of night, haggard and knowing, peace rests nevermore. Fool that I was

to plunge with such unsanctioned phrensy into mysteries no man was meant to penetrate;

fool or god that he was—my only friend, who led me and went before me, and who in the end

passed into terrors which may yet be mine.

We met, I recall, in a railway station, where he was the centre of a crowd of the vulgarly

curious. He was unconscious, having fallen in a kind of convulsion which imparted to his slight

black-clad body a strange rigidity. I think he was then approaching forty years of age, for there

were deep lines in the face, wan and hollow-cheeked, but oval and actually beautiful; and

touches of grey in the thick, waving hair and small full beard which had once been of the

deepest raven black. His brow was white as the marble of Pentelicus, and of a height and

breadth almost godlike. I said to myself, with all the ardour of a sculptor, that this man was a

faun‘s statue out of antique Hellas, dug from a temple‘s ruins and brought somehow to life in

our stifling age only to feel the chill and pressure of devastating years. And when he opened

his immense, sunken, and wildly luminous black eyes I knew he would be thenceforth my only

friend—the only friend of one who had never possessed a friend before—for I saw that such

eyes must have looked fully upon the grandeur and the terror of realms beyond normal

consciousness and reality; realms which I had cherished in fancy, but vainly sought. So as I

drove the crowd away I told him he must come home with me and be my teacher and leader

in unfathomed mysteries, and he assented without speaking a word. Afterward I found that his

voice was music—the music of deep viols and of crystalline spheres. We talked often in the

night, and in the day, when I chiselled busts of him and carved miniature heads in ivory to

immortalise his different expressions.

Of our studies it is impossible to speak, since they held so slight a connexion with anything of

the world as living men conceive it. They were of that vaster and more appalling universe of

dim entity and consciousness which lies deeper than matter, time, and space, and whose

existence we suspect only in certain forms of sleep—those rare dreams beyond dreams

which come never to common men, and but once or twice in the lifetime of imaginative men.

The cosmos of our waking knowledge, born from such an universe as a bubble is born from

the pipe of a jester, touches it only as such a bubble may touch its sardonic source when

sucked back by the jester‘s whim. Men of learning suspect it little, and ignore it mostly. Wise

men have interpreted dreams, and the gods have laughed. One man with Oriental eyes has

said that all time and space are relative, and men have laughed. But even that man with

Oriental eyes has done no more than suspect. I had wished and tried to do more than

suspect, and my friend had tried and partly succeeded. Then we both tried together, and with

exotic drugs courted terrible and forbidden dreams in the tower studio chamber of the old

manor-house in hoary Kent.

Among the agonies of these after days is that chief of torments—inarticulateness. What I

learned and saw in those hours of impious exploration can never be told—for want of symbols

or suggestions in any language. I say this because from first to last our discoveries partook

only of the nature of sensations; sensations correlated with no impression which the nervous

system of normal humanity is capable of receiving. They were sensations, yet within them lay

unbelievable elements of time and space—things which at bottom possess no distinct and

definite existence. Human utterance can best convey the general character of our

experiences by calling them plungings or soarings; for in every period of revelation some part

of our minds broke boldly away from all that is real and present, rushing aërially along

shocking, unlighted, and fear-haunted abysses, and occasionally tearing through certain well-

marked and typical obstacles describable only as viscous, uncouth clouds or vapours. In

these black and bodiless flights we were sometimes alone and sometimes together. When we

were together, my friend was always far ahead; I could comprehend his presence despite the

absence of form by a species of pictorial memory whereby his face appeared to me, golden

from a strange light and frightful with its weird beauty, its anomalously youthful cheeks, its

burning eyes, its Olympian brow, and its shadowing hair and growth of beard.

Of the progress of time we kept no record, for time had become to us the merest illusion. I

know only that there must have been something very singular involved, since we came at

length to marvel why we did not grow old. Our discourse was unholy, and always hideously

ambitious—no god or daemon could have aspired to discoveries and conquests like those

which we planned in whispers. I shiver as I speak of them, and dare not be explicit; though I

will say that my friend once wrote on paper a wish which he dared not utter with his tongue,

and which made me burn the paper and look affrightedly out of the window at the spangled

night sky. I will hint—only hint—that he had designs which involved the rulership of the visible

universe and more; designs whereby the earth and the stars would move at his command,

and the destinies of all living things be his. I affirm—I swear—that I had no share in these

extreme aspirations. Anything my friend may have said or written to the contrary must be

erroneous, for I am no man of strength to risk the unmentionable warfare in unmentionable

spheres by which alone one might achieve success.

There was a night when winds from unknown spaces whirled us irresistibly into limitless

vacua beyond all thought and entity. Perceptions of the most maddeningly untransmissible

sort thronged upon us; perceptions of infinity which at the time convulsed us with joy, yet

which are now partly lost to my memory and partly incapable of presentation to others.

Viscous obstacles were clawed through in rapid succession, and at length I felt that we had

been borne to realms of greater remoteness than any we had previously known. My friend

was vastly in advance as we plunged into this awesome ocean of virgin aether, and I could

see the sinister exultation on his floating, luminous, too youthful memory-face. Suddenly that

face became dim and quickly disappeared, and in a brief space I found myself projected

against an obstacle which I could not penetrate. It was like the others, yet incalculably denser;

a sticky, clammy mass, if such terms can be applied to analogous qualities in a non-material

sphere.

I had, I felt, been halted by a barrier which my friend and leader had successfully passed.

Struggling anew, I came to the end of the drug-dream and opened my physical eyes to the

tower studio in whose opposite corner reclined the pallid and still unconscious form of my

fellow-dreamer, weirdly haggard and wildly beautiful as the moon shed gold-green light on his

marble features. Then, after a short interval, the form in the corner stirred; and may pitying

heaven keep from my sight and sound another thing like that which took place before me. I

cannot tell you how he shrieked, or what vistas of unvisitable hells gleamed for a second in

black eyes crazed with fright. I can only say that I fainted, and did not stir till he himself

recovered and shook me in his phrensy for someone to keep away the horror and desolation.

That was the end of our voluntary searchings in the caverns of dream. Awed, shaken, and

portentous, my friend who had been beyond the barrier warned me that we must never

venture within those realms again. What he had seen, he dared not tell me; but he said from

his wisdom that we must sleep as little as possible, even if drugs were necessary to keep us

awake. That he was right, I soon learned from the unutterable fear which engulfed me

whenever consciousness lapsed. After each short and inevitable sleep I seemed older, whilst

my friend aged with a rapidity almost shocking. It is hideous to see wrinkles form and hair

whiten almost before one‘s eyes. Our mode of life was now totally altered. Heretofore a

recluse so far as I know—his true name and origin never having passed his lips—my friend

now became frantic in his fear of solitude. At night he would not be alone, nor would the

company of a few persons calm him. His sole relief was obtained in revelry of the most

general and boisterous sort; so that few assemblies of the young and the gay were unknown

to us. Our appearance and age seemed to excite in most cases a ridicule which I keenly

resented, but which my friend considered a lesser evil than solitude. Especially was he afraid

to be out of doors alone when the stars were shining, and if forced to this condition he would

often glance furtively at the sky as if hunted by some monstrous thing therein. He did not

always glance at the same place in the sky—it seemed to be a different place at different

times. On spring evenings it would be low in the northeast. In the summer it would be nearly

overhead. In the autumn it would be in the northwest. In winter it would be in the east, but

mostly if in the small hours of morning. Midwinter evenings seemed least dreadful to him.

Only after two years did I connect this fear with anything in particular; but then I began to see

that he must be looking at a special spot on the celestial vault whose position at different

times corresponded to the direction of his glance—a spot roughly marked by the constellation

Corona Borealis.

We now had a studio in London, never separating, but never discussing the days when we

had sought to plumb the mysteries of the unreal world. We were aged and weak from our

drugs, dissipations, and nervous overstrain, and the thinning hair and beard of my friend had

become snow-white. Our freedom from long sleep was surprising, for seldom did we succumb

more than an hour or two at a time to the shadow which had now grown so frightful a menace.

Then came one January of fog and rain, when money ran low and drugs were hard to buy. My

statues and ivory heads were all sold, and I had no means to purchase new materials, or

energy to fashion them even had I possessed them. We suffered terribly, and on a certain

night my friend sank into a deep-breathing sleep from which I could not awaken him. I can

recall the scene now—the desolate, pitch-black garret studio under the eaves with the rain

beating down; the ticking of the lone clock; the fancied ticking of our watches as they rested

on the dressing-table; the creaking of some swaying shutter in a remote part of the house;

certain distant city noises muffled by fog and space; and worst of all the deep, steady, sinister

breathing of my friend on the couch—a rhythmical breathing which seemed to measure

moments of supernal fear and agony for his spirit as it wandered in spheres forbidden,

unimagined, and hideously remote.

The tension of my vigil became oppressive, and a wild train of trivial impressions and

associations thronged through my almost unhinged mind. I heard a clock strike somewhere—

not ours, for that was not a striking clock—and my morbid fancy found in this a new starting-

point for idle wanderings. Clocks—time—space—infinity—and then my fancy reverted to the

local as I reflected that even now, beyond the roof and the fog and the rain and the

atmosphere, Corona Borealis was rising in the northeast. Corona Borealis, which my friend

had appeared to dread, and whose scintillant semicircle of stars must even now be glowing

unseen through the measureless abysses of aether. All at once my feverishly sensitive ears

seemed to detect a new and wholly distinct component in the soft medley of drug-magnified

sounds—a low and damnably insistent whine from very far away; droning, clamouring,

mocking, calling, from the northeast.

But it was not that distant whine which robbed me of my faculties and set upon my soul such

a seal of fright as may never in life be removed; not that which drew the shrieks and excited

the convulsions which caused lodgers and police to break down the door. It was not what I

heard, but what I saw; for in that dark, locked, shuttered, and curtained room there appeared

from the black northeast corner a shaft of horrible red-gold light—a shaft which bore with it no

glow to disperse the darkness, but which streamed only upon the recumbent head of the

troubled sleeper, bringing out in hideous duplication the luminous and strangely youthful

memory-face as I had known it in dreams of abysmal space and unshackled time, when my

friend had pushed behind the barrier to those secret, innermost, and forbidden caverns of

nightmare.

And as I looked, I beheld the head rise, the black, liquid, and deep-sunken eyes open in

terror, and the thin, shadowed lips part as if for a scream too frightful to be uttered. There

dwelt in that ghastly and flexible face, as it shone bodiless, luminous, and rejuvenated in the

blackness, more of stark, teeming, brain-shattering fear than all the rest of heaven and earth

has ever revealed to me. No word was spoken amidst the distant sound that grew nearer and

nearer, but as I followed the memory-face‘s mad stare along that cursed shaft of light to its

source, the source whence also the whining came, I too saw for an instant what it saw, and

fell with ringing ears in that fit of shrieking and epilepsy which brought the lodgers and the

police. Never could I tell, try as I might, what it actually was that I saw; nor could the still face

tell, for although it must have seen more than I did, it will never speak again. But always I

shall guard against the mocking and insatiate Hypnos, lord of sleep, against the night sky, and

against the mad ambitions of knowledge and philosophy.

Just what happened is unknown, for not only was my own mind unseated by the strange and

hideous thing, but others were tainted with a forgetfulness which can mean nothing if not

madness. They have said, I know not for what reason, that I never had a friend, but that art,

philosophy, and insanity had filled all my tragic life. The lodgers and police on that night

soothed me, and the doctor administered something to quiet me, nor did anyone see what a

nightmare event had taken place. My stricken friend moved them to no pity, but what they

found on the couch in the studio made them give me a praise which sickened me, and now a

fame which I spurn in despair as I sit for hours, bald, grey-bearded, shrivelled, palsied, drug-

crazed, and broken, adoring and praying to the object they found.

For they deny that I sold the last of my statuary, and point with ecstasy at the thing which the

shining shaft of light left cold, petrified, and unvocal. It is all that remains of my friend; the

friend who led me on to madness and wreckage; a godlike head of such marble as only old

Hellas could yield, young with the youth that is outside time, and with beauteous bearded

face, curved, smiling lips, Olympian brow, and dense locks waving and poppy-crowned. They

say that that haunting memory-face is modelled from my own, as it was at twenty-five, but

upon the marble base is carven a single name in the letters of Attica—‘ΥΠΝΟΣ.

What the Moon Brings

(1922)

I hate the moon—I am afraid of it—for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it

sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous.

It was in the spectral summer when the moon shone down on the old garden where I

wandered; the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and humid seas of foliage that bring wild

and many-coloured dreams. And as I walked by the shallow crystal stream I saw unwonted

ripples tipped with yellow light, as if those placid waters were drawn on in resistless currents

to strange oceans that are not in the world. Silent and sparkling, bright and baleful, those

moon-cursed waters hurried I knew not whither; whilst from the embowered banks white lotos

blossoms fluttered one by one in the opiate night-wind and dropped despairingly into the

stream, swirling away horribly under the arched, carven bridge, and staring back with the

sinister resignation of calm, dead faces.

And as I ran along the shore, crushing sleeping flowers with heedless feet and maddened

ever by the fear of unknown things and the lure of the dead faces, I saw that the garden had

no end under that moon; for where by day the walls were, there stretched now only new

vistas of trees and paths, flowers and shrubs, stone idols and pagodas, and bendings of the

yellow-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. And the lips of

the dead lotos-faces whispered sadly, and bade me follow, nor did I cease my steps till the

stream became a river, and joined amidst marshes of swaying reeds and beaches of

gleaming sand the shore of a vast and nameless sea.

Upon that sea the hateful moon shone, and over its unvocal waves weird perfumes brooded.

And as I saw therein the lotos-faces vanish, I longed for nets that I might capture them and

learn from them the secrets which the moon had brought upon the night. But when the moon

went over to the west and the still tide ebbed from the sullen shore, I saw in that light old

spires that the waves almost uncovered, and white columns gay with festoons of green

seaweed. And knowing that to this sunken place all the dead had come, I trembled and did

not wish again to speak with the lotos-faces.

Yet when I saw afar out in the sea a black condor descend from the sky to seek rest on a vast

reef, I would fain have questioned him, and asked him of those whom I had known when they

were alive. This I would have asked him had he not been so far away, but he was very far,

and could not be seen at all when he drew nigh that gigantic reef.

So I watched the tide go out under that sinking moon, and saw gleaming the spires, the

towers, and the roofs of that dead, dripping city. And as I watched, my nostrils tried to close

against the perfume-conquering stench of the world‘s dead; for truly, in this unplaced and

forgotten spot had all the flesh of the churchyards gathered for puffy sea-worms to gnaw and

glut upon.

Over those horrors the evil moon now hung very low, but the puffy worms of the sea need no

moon to feed by. And as I watched the ripples that told of the writhing of worms beneath, I felt

a new chill from afar out whither the condor had flown, as if my flesh had caught a horror

before my eyes had seen it.

Nor had my flesh trembled without cause, for when I raised my eyes I saw that the waters had

ebbed very low, shewing much of the vast reef whose rim I had seen before. And when I saw

Azathoth

(1922)

When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men; when grey cities

reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the

sun or of spring‘s flowering meads; when learning stripped earth of her mantle of beauty, and

poets sang no more save of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward-looking eyes;

when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone away forever, there was a

man who travelled out of life on a quest into the spaces whither the world‘s dreams had fled.

Of the name and abode of this man but little is written, for they were of the waking world only;

yet it is said that both were obscure. It is enough to know that he dwelt in a city of high walls

where sterile twilight reigned, and that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming

home at evening to a room whose one window opened not on the fields and groves but on a

dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. From that casement one might see only

walls and windows, except sometimes when one leaned far out and peered aloft at the small

stars that passed. And because mere walls and windows must soon drive to madness a man

who dreams and reads much, the dweller in that room used night after night to lean out and

peer aloft to glimpse some fragment of things beyond the waking world and the greyness of

tall cities. After years he began to call the slow-sailing stars by name, and to follow them in

fancy when they glided regretfully out of sight; till at length his vision opened to many secret

vistas whose existence no common eye suspects. And one night a mighty gulf was bridged,

and the dream-haunted skies swelled down to the lonely watcher‘s window to merge with the

close air of his room and make him a part of their fabulous wonder.

There came to that room wild streams of violet midnight glittering with dust of gold; vortices of

dust and fire, swirling out of the ultimate spaces and heavy with perfumes from beyond the

worlds. Opiate oceans poured there, litten by suns that the eye may never behold and having

in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-nymphs of unrememberable deeps. Noiseless

infinity eddied around the dreamer and wafted him away without even touching the body that

leaned stiffly from the lonely window; and for days not counted in men‘s calendars the tides of

far spheres bare him gently to join the dreams for which he longed; the dreams that men have

lost. And in the course of many cycles they tenderly left him sleeping on a green sunrise

shore; a green shore fragrant with lotus-blossoms and starred by red camalotes.

Return to Table of Contents

The Hound

(1922)

In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and a faint,

distant baying as of some gigantic hound. It is not dream—it is not, I fear, even madness—for

too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. St. John is a mangled

corpse; I alone know why, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for

fear I shall be mangled in the same way. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch

phantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Wearied

with the commonplaces of a prosaic world, where even the joys of romance and adventure

soon grow stale, St. John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual

movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. The enigmas of the Symbolists

and the ecstasies of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but each new mood was

drained too soon of its diverting novelty and appeal. Only the sombre philosophy of the

Decadents could hold us, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and

diabolism of our penetrations. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till

finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences

and adventures. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that detestable

course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous

extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

I cannot reveal the details of our shocking expeditions, or catalogue even partly the worst of

the trophies adorning the nameless museum we prepared in the great stone house where we

jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place,

where with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled an universe of terror and

decay to excite our jaded sensibilities. It was a secret room, far, far underground; where huge

winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green

and orange light, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the

lines of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Through these

pipes came at will the odours our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral

lilies, sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the kingly dead, and

sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!—the frightful, soul-upheaving stenches of the

uncovered grave.

Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with

comely, life-like bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the taxidermist‘s art, and with

headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the world. Niches here and there

contained skulls of all shapes, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. There

one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and the fresh and radiantly golden

heads of new-buried children. Statues and paintings there were, all of fiendish subjects and

some executed by St. John and myself. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held

certain unknown and unnamable drawings which it was rumoured Goya had perpetrated but

dared not acknowledge. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, and

wood-wind, on which St. John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity

and cacodaemoniacal ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the

most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness

and perversity. It is of this loot in particular that I must not speak—thank God I had the

courage to destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself.

The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always

artistically memorable events. We were no vulgar ghouls, but worked only under certain

conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and moonlight. These

pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and we gave their

details a fastidious technical care. An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or a clumsy

manipulation of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which

followed the exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of the earth. Our quest for novel

scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St. John was always the leader,

and he it was who led the way at last to that mocking, that accursed spot which brought us

our hideous and inevitable doom.

By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? I think it was the

dark rumour and legendry, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a

ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulchre. I can recall the scene

in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible

shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the

crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the

antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the phosphorescent

insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the odours of mould,

vegetation, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the night-wind from over far

swamps and seas; and worst of all, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound which

we could neither see nor definitely place. As we heard this suggestion of baying we

shuddered, remembering the tales of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries

before been found in this selfsame spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth of some

unspeakable beast.

I remembered how we delved in this ghoul‘s grave with our spades, and how we thrilled at the

picture of ourselves, the grave, the pale watching moon, the horrible shadows, the grotesque

trees, the titanic bats, the antique church, the dancing death-fires, the sickening odours, the

gently moaning night-wind, and the strange, half-heard, directionless baying, of whose

objective existence we could scarcely be sure. Then we struck a substance harder than the

damp mould, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long

undisturbed ground. It was incredibly tough and thick, but so old that we finally pried it open

and feasted our eyes on what it held.

Much—amazingly much—was left of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. The

skeleton, though crushed in places by the jaws of the thing that had killed it, held together

with surprising firmness, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and

its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own. In the coffin lay an

amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper‘s

neck. It was the oddly conventionalised figure of a crouching winged hound, or sphinx with a

semi-canine face, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of

green jade. The expression on its features was repellent in the extreme, savouring at once of

death, bestiality, and malevolence. Around the base was an inscription in characters which

neither St. John nor I could identify; and on the bottom, like a maker‘s seal, was graven a

grotesque and formidable skull.

Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we must possess it; that this treasure

alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave. Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we

would have desired it, but as we looked more closely we saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.

Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but we

recognised it as the thing hinted of in the forbidden Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul

Alhazred; the ghastly soul-symbol of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central

Asia. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the old Arab

daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of

the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the dead.

Seizing the green jade object, we gave a last glance at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of

its owner and closed up the grave as we found it. As we hastened from that abhorrent spot,

the stolen amulet in St. John‘s pocket, we thought we saw the bats descend in a body to the

earth we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. But the

autumn moon shone weak and pale, and we could not be sure. So, too, as we sailed the next

day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard the faint distant baying of some

gigantic hound in the background. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we could

not be sure.

II.

Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. We lived as

recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and without servants in a few rooms of an ancient manor-

house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the

knock of the visitor. Now, however, we were troubled by what seemed to be frequent

fumblings in the night, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well

as lower. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the

moon was shining against it, and another time we thought we heard a whirring or flapping

sound not far off. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and we began to ascribe

the occurrences to imagination alone—that same curiously disturbed imagination which still

prolonged in our ears the faint far baying we thought we had heard in the Holland churchyard.

The jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our museum, and sometimes we burned strangely

scented candles before it. We read much in Alhazred‘s Necronomicon about its properties,

and about the relation of ghouls‘ souls to the objects it symbolised; and were disturbed by

what we read. Then terror came.

On the night of September 24, 19––, I heard a knock at my chamber door. Fancying it St.

John‘s, I bade the knocker enter, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. There was no one

in the corridor. When I aroused St. John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the

event, and became as worried as I. It was that night that the faint, distant baying over the

moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Four days later, whilst we were both in the

hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the single door which led to the

secret library staircase. Our alarm was now divided, for besides our fear of the unknown, we

had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Extinguishing

all lights, we proceeded to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an

unaccountable rush of air, and heard as if receding far away a queer combination of rustling,

tittering, and articulate chatter. Whether we were mad, dreaming, or in our senses, we did not

try to determine. We only realised, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently

disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Dutch language.

After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Mostly we held to the theory that we

were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but sometimes it pleased us

more to dramatise ourselves as the victims of some creeping and appalling doom. Bizarre

manifestations were now too frequent to count. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the

presence of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and every night that

daemoniac baying rolled over the windswept moor, always louder and louder. On October 29

we found in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly

impossible to describe. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which haunted the

old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St. John, walking home after dark

from the distant railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to

ribbons. His screams had reached the house, and I had hastened to the terrible scene in time

to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising

moon. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and he could not answer coherently. All he

could do was to whisper, ―The amulet—that damned thing—.‖ Then he collapsed, an inert

mass of mangled flesh.

I buried him the next midnight in one of our neglected gardens, and mumbled over his body

one of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. And as I pronounced the last daemoniac

sentence I heard afar on the moor the faint baying of some gigantic hound. The moon was up,

but I dared not look at it. And when I saw on the dim-litten moor a wide nebulous shadow

sweeping from mound to mound, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the

ground. When I arose trembling, I know not how much later, I staggered into the house and

made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.

Being now afraid to live alone in the ancient house on the moor, I departed on the following

day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the

impious collection in the museum. But after three nights I heard the baying again, and before

a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was dark. One evening as I strolled

on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I saw a black shape obscure one of the

reflections of the lamps in the water. A wind stronger than the night-wind rushed by, and I

knew that what had befallen St. John must soon befall me.

The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. What mercy I

might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I must

at least try any step conceivably logical. What the hound was, and why it pursued me, were

questions still vague; but I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and every

subsequent event including St. John‘s dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the

stealing of the amulet. Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an

inn in Rotterdam, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.

The baying was loud that evening, and in the morning I read of a nameless deed in the vilest

quarter of the city. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death

beyond the foulest previous crime of the neighbourhood. In a squalid thieves‘ den an entire

family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and those around had

heard all night above the usual clamour of drunken voices a faint, deep, insistent note as of a

gigantic hound.

So at last I stood again in that unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast

hideous shadows, and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and

cracking slabs, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the unfriendly sky, and the

night-wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. The baying was very

faint now, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient grave I had once violated, and

frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which had been hovering curiously around

it.

I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the

calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I attacked the half-frozen sod with a

desperation partly mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself. Excavation was

much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a

lean vulture darted down out of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the grave-earth until I

killed him with a blow of my spade. Finally I reached the rotting oblong box and removed the

damp nitrous cover. This is the last rational act I ever performed.

For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of

huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was the bony thing my friend and I had robbed; not clean and

placid as we had seen it then, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and

hair, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs

yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. And when it gave from those grinning

jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, and I saw that it held in its gory, filthy

claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my

screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

Madness rides the star-wind . . . claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses . . .

dripping death astride a Bacchanale of bats from night-black ruins of buried temples of Belial.

. . . Now, as the baying of that dead, fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and the

stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings circles closer and closer, I shall

seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnamable.

Return to Table of Contents

The Lurking Fear

(1922)

I. The Shadow on the Chimney

There was thunder in the air on the night I went to the deserted mansion atop Tempest

Mountain to find the lurking fear. I was not alone, for foolhardiness was not then mixed with

that love of the grotesque and the terrible which has made my career a series of quests for

strange horrors in literature and in life. With me were two faithful and muscular men for whom

I had sent when the time came; men long associated with me in my ghastly explorations

because of their peculiar fitness.

We had started quietly from the village because of the reporters who still lingered about after

the eldritch panic of a month before—the nightmare creeping death. Later, I thought, they

might aid me; but I did not want them then. Would to God I had let them share the search,

that I might not have had to bear the secret alone so long; to bear it alone for fear the world

would call me mad or go mad itself at the daemon implications of the thing. Now that I am

telling it anyway, lest the brooding make me a maniac, I wish I had never concealed it. For I,

and I only, know what manner of fear lurked on that spectral and desolate mountain.

In a small motor-car we covered the miles of primeval forest and hill until the wooded ascent

checked it. The country bore an aspect more than usually sinister as we viewed it by night

and without the accustomed crowds of investigators, so that we were often tempted to use the

acetylene headlight despite the attention it might attract. It was not a wholesome landscape

after dark, and I believe I would have noticed its morbidity even had I been ignorant of the

terror that stalked there. Of wild creatures there were none—they are wise when death leers

close. The ancient lightning-scarred trees seemed unnaturally large and twisted, and the

other vegetation unnaturally thick and feverish, while curious mounds and hummocks in the

weedy, fulgurite-pitted earth reminded me of snakes and dead men‘s skulls swelled to gigantic

proportions.

Fear had lurked on Tempest Mountain for more than a century. This I learned at once from

newspaper accounts of the catastrophe which first brought the region to the world‘s notice.

The place is a remote, lonely elevation in that part of the Catskills where Dutch civilisation

once feebly and transiently penetrated, leaving behind as it receded only a few ruined

mansions and a degenerate squatter population inhabiting pitiful hamlets on isolated slopes.

Normal beings seldom visited the locality till the state police were formed, and even now only

infrequent troopers patrol it. The fear, however, is an old tradition throughout the neighbouring

villages; since it is a prime topic in the simple discourse of the poor mongrels who sometimes

leave their valleys to trade hand-woven baskets for such primitive necessities as they cannot

shoot, raise, or make.

The lurking fear dwelt in the shunned and deserted Martense mansion, which crowned the

high but gradual eminence whose liability to frequent thunderstorms gave it the name of

Tempest Mountain. For over a hundred years the antique, grove-circled stone house had

been the subject of stories incredibly wild and monstrously hideous; stories of a silent colossal

creeping death which stalked abroad in summer. With whimpering insistence the squatters

told tales of a daemon which seized lone wayfarers after dark, either carrying them off or

leaving them in a frightful state of gnawed dismemberment; while sometimes they whispered

of blood-trails toward the distant mansion. Some said the thunder called the lurking fear out of

its habitation, while others said the thunder was its voice.

No one outside the backwoods had believed these varying and conflicting stories, with their

incoherent, extravagant descriptions of the half-glimpsed fiend; yet not a farmer or villager

doubted that the Martense mansion was ghoulishly haunted. Local history forbade such a

doubt, although no ghostly evidence was ever found by such investigators as had visited the

building after some especially vivid tale of the squatters. Grandmothers told strange myths of

the Martense spectre; myths concerning the Martense family itself, its queer hereditary

dissimilarity of eyes, its long, unnatural annals, and the murder which had cursed it.

The terror which brought me to the scene was a sudden and portentous confirmation of the

mountaineers‘ wildest legends. One summer night, after a thunderstorm of unprecedented

violence, the countryside was aroused by a squatter stampede which no mere delusion could

create. The pitiful throngs of natives shrieked and whined of the unnamable horror which had

descended upon them, and they were not doubted. They had not seen it, but had heard such

cries from one of their hamlets that they knew a creeping death had come.

In the morning citizens and state troopers followed the shuddering mountaineers to the place

where they said the death had come. Death was indeed there. The ground under one of the

squatters‘ villages had caved in after a lightning stroke, destroying several of the malodorous

shanties; but upon this property damage was superimposed an organic devastation which

paled it to insignificance. Of a possible 75 natives who had inhabited this spot, not one living

specimen was visible. The disordered earth was covered with blood and human debris

bespeaking too vividly the ravages of daemon teeth and talons; yet no visible trail led away

from the carnage. That some hideous animal must be the cause, everyone quickly agreed;

nor did any tongue now revive the charge that such cryptic deaths formed merely the sordid

murders common in decadent communities. That charge was revived only when about 25 of

the estimated population were found missing from the dead; and even then it was hard to

explain the murder of fifty by half that number. But the fact remained that on a summer night a

bolt had come out of the heavens and left a dead village whose corpses were horribly

mangled, chewed, and clawed.

The excited countryside immediately connected the horror with the haunted Martense

mansion, though the localities were over three miles apart. The troopers were more sceptical;

including the mansion only casually in their investigations, and dropping it altogether when

they found it thoroughly deserted. Country and village people, however, canvassed the place

with infinite care; overturning everything in the house, sounding ponds and brooks, beating

down bushes, and ransacking the nearby forests. All was in vain; the death that had come

had left no trace save destruction itself.

By the second day of the search the affair was fully treated by the newspapers, whose

reporters overran Tempest Mountain. They described it in much detail, and with many

interviews to elucidate the horror‘s history as told by local grandams. I followed the accounts

languidly at first, for I am a connoisseur in horrors; but after a week I detected an atmosphere

which stirred me oddly, so that on August 5th, 1921, I registered among the reporters who

crowded the hotel at Lefferts Corners, nearest village to Tempest Mountain and

acknowledged headquarters of the searchers. Three weeks more, and the dispersal of the

reporters left me free to begin a terrible exploration based on the minute inquiries and

surveying with which I had meanwhile busied myself.

So on this summer night, while distant thunder rumbled, I left a silent motor-car and tramped

with two armed companions up the last mound-covered reaches of Tempest Mountain,

casting the beams of an electric torch on the spectral grey walls that began to appear through

giant oaks ahead. In this morbid night solitude and feeble shifting illumination, the vast box-

like pile displayed obscure hints of terror which day could not uncover; yet I did not hesitate,

since I had come with fierce resolution to test an idea. I believed that the thunder called the

death-daemon out of some fearsome secret place; and be that daemon solid entity or

vaporous pestilence, I meant to see it.

I had thoroughly searched the ruin before, hence knew my plan well; choosing as the seat of

my vigil the old room of Jan Martense, whose murder looms so great in the rural legends. I

felt subtly that the apartment of this ancient victim was best for my purposes. The chamber,

measuring about twenty feet square, contained like the other rooms some rubbish which had

once been furniture. It lay on the second story, on the southeast corner of the house, and had

an immense east window and narrow south window, both devoid of panes or shutters.

Opposite the large window was an enormous Dutch fireplace with scriptural tiles representing

the prodigal son, and opposite the narrow window was a spacious bed built into the wall.

As the tree-muffled thunder grew louder, I arranged my plan‘s details. First I fastened side by

side to the ledge of the large window three rope ladders which I had brought with me. I knew

they reached a suitable spot on the grass outside, for I had tested them. Then the three of us

dragged from another room a wide four-poster bedstead, crowding it laterally against the

window. Having strown it with fir boughs, all now rested on it with drawn automatics, two

relaxing while the third watched. From whatever direction the daemon might come, our

potential escape was provided. If it came from within the house, we had the window ladders; if

from outside, the door and the stairs. We did not think, judging from precedent, that it would

pursue us far even at worst.

I watched from midnight to one o‘clock, when in spite of the sinister house, the unprotected

window, and the approaching thunder and lightning, I felt singularly drowsy. I was between my

two companions, George Bennett being toward the window and William Tobey toward the

fireplace. Bennett was asleep, having apparently felt the same anomalous drowsiness which

affected me, so I designated Tobey for the next watch although even he was nodding. It is

curious how intently I had been watching that fireplace.

The increasing thunder must have affected my dreams, for in the brief time I slept there came

to me apocalyptic visions. Once I partly awaked, probably because the sleeper toward the

window had restlessly flung an arm across my chest. I was not sufficiently awake to see

whether Tobey was attending to his duties as sentinel, but felt a distinct anxiety on that score.

Never before had the presence of evil so poignantly oppressed me. Later I must have

dropped asleep again, for it was out of a phantasmal chaos that my mind leaped when the

night grew hideous with shrieks beyond anything in my former experience or imagination.

In that shrieking the inmost soul of human fear and agony clawed hopelessly and insanely at

the ebony gates of oblivion. I awoke to red madness and the mockery of diabolism, as farther

and farther down inconceivable vistas that phobic and crystalline anguish retreated and

reverberated. There was no light, but I knew from the empty space at my right that Tobey was

gone, God alone knew whither. Across my chest still lay the heavy arm of the sleeper at my

left.

Then came the devastating stroke of lightning which shook the whole mountain, lit the darkest

crypts of the hoary grove, and splintered the patriarch of the twisted trees. In the daemon

flash of a monstrous fireball the sleeper started up suddenly while the glare from beyond the

window threw his shadow vividly upon the chimney above the fireplace from which my eyes

had never strayed. That I am still alive and sane, is a marvel I cannot fathom. I cannot fathom

it, for the shadow on that chimney was not that of George Bennett or of any other human

creature, but a blasphemous abnormality from hell‘s nethermost craters; a nameless,

shapeless abomination which no mind could fully grasp and no pen even partly describe. In

another second I was alone in the accursed mansion, shivering and gibbering. George

Bennett and William Tobey had left no trace, not even of a struggle. They were never heard of

again.

II. A Passer in the Storm

For days after that hideous experience in the forest-swathed mansion I lay nervously

exhausted in my hotel room at Lefferts Corners. I do not remember exactly how I managed to

reach the motor-car, start it, and slip unobserved back to the village; for I retain no distinct

impression save of wild-armed titan trees, daemoniac mutterings of thunder, and Charonian

shadows athwart the low mounds that dotted and streaked the region.

As I shivered and brooded on the casting of that brain-blasting shadow, I knew that I had at

last pried out one of earth‘s supreme horrors—one of those nameless blights of outer voids

whose faint daemon scratchings we sometimes hear on the farthest rim of space, yet from

which our own finite vision has given us a merciful immunity. The shadow I had seen, I hardly

dared to analyse or identify. Something had lain between me and the window that night, but I

shuddered whenever I could not cast off the instinct to classify it. If it had only snarled, or

bayed, or laughed titteringly—even that would have relieved the abysmal hideousness. But it

was so silent. It had rested a heavy arm or fore leg on my chest. . . . Obviously it was organic,

or had once been organic. . . . Jan Martense, whose room I had invaded, was buried in the

graveyard near the mansion. . . . I must find Bennett and Tobey, if they lived . . . why had it

picked them, and left me for the last? . . . Drowsiness is so stifling, and dreams are so

horrible. . . .

In a short time I realised that I must tell my story to someone or break down completely. I had

already decided not to abandon the quest for the lurking fear, for in my rash ignorance it

seemed to me that uncertainty was worse than enlightenment, however terrible the latter

might prove to be. Accordingly I resolved in my mind the best course to pursue; whom to

select for my confidences, and how to track down the thing which had obliterated two men

and cast a nightmare shadow.

My chief acquaintances at Lefferts Corners had been the affable reporters, of whom several

still remained to collect final echoes of the tragedy. It was from these that I determined to

choose a colleague, and the more I reflected the more my preference inclined toward one

Arthur Munroe, a dark, lean man of about thirty-five, whose education, taste, intelligence, and

temperament all seemed to mark him as one not bound to conventional ideas and

experiences.

On an afternoon in early September Arthur Munroe listened to my story. I saw from the

beginning that he was both interested and sympathetic, and when I had finished he analysed

and discussed the thing with the greatest shrewdness and judgment. His advice, moreover,

was eminently practical; for he recommended a postponement of operations at the Martense

mansion until we might become fortified with more detailed historical and geographical data.

On his initiative we combed the countryside for information regarding the terrible Martense

family, and discovered a man who possessed a marvellously illuminating ancestral diary. We

also talked at length with such of the mountain mongrels as had not fled from the terror and

confusion to remoter slopes, and arranged to precede our culminating task—the exhaustive

and definitive examination of the mansion in the light of its detailed history—with an equally

exhaustive and definitive examination of spots associated with the various tragedies of

squatter legend.

The results of this examination were not at first very enlightening, though our tabulation of

them seemed to reveal a fairly significant trend; namely, that the number of reported horrors

was by far the greatest in areas either comparatively near the avoided house or connected

with it by stretches of the morbidly overnourished forest. There were, it is true, exceptions;

indeed, the horror which had caught the world‘s ear had happened in a treeless space remote

alike from the mansion and from any connecting woods.

As to the nature and appearance of the lurking fear, nothing could be gained from the scared

and witless shanty-dwellers. In the same breath they called it a snake and a giant, a thunder-

devil and a bat, a vulture and a walking tree. We did, however, deem ourselves justified in

assuming that it was a living organism highly susceptible to electrical storms; and although

certain of the stories suggested wings, we believed that its aversion for open spaces made

land locomotion a more probable theory. The only thing really incompatible with the latter view

was the rapidity with which the creature must have travelled in order to perform all the deeds

attributed to it.

When we came to know the squatters better, we found them curiously likeable in many ways.

Simple animals they were, gently descending the evolutionary scale because of their

unfortunate ancestry and stultifying isolation. They feared outsiders, but slowly grew

accustomed to us; finally helping vastly when we beat down all the thickets and tore out all

the partitions of the mansion in our search for the lurking fear. When we asked them to help

us find Bennett and Tobey they were truly distressed; for they wanted to help us, yet knew

that these victims had gone as wholly out of the world as their own missing people. That great

numbers of them had actually been killed and removed, just as the wild animals had long

been exterminated, we were of course thoroughly convinced; and we waited apprehensively

for further tragedies to occur.

By the middle of October we were puzzled by our lack of progress. Owing to the clear nights

no daemoniac aggressions had taken place, and the completeness of our vain searches of

house and country almost drove us to regard the lurking fear as a non-material agency. We

feared that the cold weather would come on and halt our explorations, for all agreed that the

daemon was generally quiet in winter. Thus there was a kind of haste and desperation in our

last daylight canvass of the horror-visited hamlet; a hamlet now deserted because of the

squatters‘ fears.

The ill-fated squatter hamlet had borne no name, but had long stood in a sheltered though

treeless cleft between two elevations called respectively Cone Mountain and Maple Hill. It was

closer to Maple Hill than to Cone Mountain, some of the crude abodes indeed being dugouts

on the side of the former eminence. Geographically it lay about two miles northwest of the

base of Tempest Mountain, and three miles from the oak-girt mansion. Of the distance

between the hamlet and the mansion, fully two miles and a quarter on the hamlet‘s side was

entirely open country; the plain being of fairly level character save for some of the low snake-

like mounds, and having as vegetation only grass and scattered weeds. Considering this

topography, we had finally concluded that the daemon must have come by way of Cone

Mountain, a wooded southern prolongation of which ran to within a short distance of the

westernmost spur of Tempest Mountain. The upheaval of ground we traced conclusively to a

landslide from Maple Hill, a tall lone splintered tree on whose side had been the striking point

of the thunderbolt which summoned the fiend.

As for the twentieth time or more Arthur Munroe and I went minutely over every inch of the

violated village, we were filled with a certain discouragement coupled with vague and novel

fears. It was acutely uncanny, even when frightful and uncanny things were common, to

encounter so blankly clueless a scene after such overwhelming occurrences; and we moved

about beneath the leaden, darkening sky with that tragic directionless zeal which results from

a combined sense of futility and necessity of action. Our care was gravely minute; every

cottage was again entered, every hillside dugout again searched for bodies, every thorny foot

of adjacent slope again scanned for dens and caves, but all without result. And yet, as I have

said, vague new fears hovered menacingly over us; as if giant bat-winged gryphons squatted

invisibly on the mountain-tops and leered with Abaddon-eyes that had looked on trans-cosmic

gulfs.

As the afternoon advanced, it became increasingly difficult to see; and we heard the rumble of

a thunderstorm gathering over Tempest Mountain. This sound in such a locality naturally

stirred us, though less than it would have done at night. As it was, we hoped desperately that

the storm would last until well after dark; and with that hope turned from our aimless hillside

searching toward the nearest inhabited hamlet to gather a body of squatters as helpers in the

investigation. Timid as they were, a few of the younger men were sufficiently inspired by our

protective leadership to promise such help.

We had hardly more than turned, however, when there descended such a blinding sheet of

torrential rain that shelter became imperative. The extreme, almost nocturnal darkness of the

sky caused us to stumble sadly, but guided by the frequent flashes of lightning and by our

minute knowledge of the hamlet we soon reached the least porous cabin of the lot; an

heterogeneous combination of logs and boards whose still existing door and single tiny

window both faced Maple Hill. Barring the door after us against the fury of the wind and rain,

we put in place the crude window shutter which our frequent searches had taught us where to

find. It was dismal sitting there on rickety boxes in the pitchy darkness, but we smoked pipes

and occasionally flashed our pocket lamps about. Now and then we could see the lightning

through the cracks in the wall; the afternoon was so incredibly dark that each flash was

extremely vivid.

The stormy vigil reminded me shudderingly of my ghastly night on Tempest Mountain. My

mind turned to that odd question which had kept recurring ever since the nightmare thing had

happened; and again I wondered why the daemon, approaching the three watchers either

from the window or the interior, had begun with the men on each side and left the middle man

till the last, when the titan fireball had scared it away. Why had it not taken its victims in

natural order, with myself second, from whichever direction it had approached? With what

manner of far-reaching tentacles did it prey? Or did it know that I was the leader, and save me

for a fate worse than that of my companions?

In the midst of these reflections, as if dramatically arranged to intensify them, there fell near

by a terrific bolt of lightning followed by the sound of sliding earth. At the same time the

wolfish wind rose to daemoniac crescendoes of ululation. We were sure that the lone tree on

Maple Hill had been struck again, and Munroe rose from his box and went to the tiny window

to ascertain the damage. When he took down the shutter the wind and rain howled

deafeningly in, so that I could not hear what he said; but I waited while he leaned out and tried

to fathom Nature‘s pandemonium.

Gradually a calming of the wind and dispersal of the unusual darkness told of the storm‘s

passing. I had hoped it would last into the night to help our quest, but a furtive sunbeam from

a knothole behind me removed the likelihood of such a thing. Suggesting to Munroe that we

had better get some light even if more showers came, I unbarred and opened the crude door.

The ground outside was a singular mass of mud and pools, with fresh heaps of earth from the

slight landslide; but I saw nothing to justify the interest which kept my companion silently

leaning out the window. Crossing to where he leaned, I touched his shoulder; but he did not

move. Then, as I playfully shook him and turned him around, I felt the strangling tendrils of a

cancerous horror whose roots reached into illimitable pasts and fathomless abysms of the

night that broods beyond time.

For Arthur Munroe was dead. And on what remained of his chewed and gouged head there

was no longer a face.

III. What the Red Glare Meant

On the tempest-racked night of November 8, 1921, with a lantern which cast charnel

shadows, I stood digging alone and idiotically in the grave of Jan Martense. I had begun to dig

in the afternoon, because a thunderstorm was brewing, and now that it was dark and the

storm had burst above the maniacally thick foliage I was glad.

I believe that my mind was partly unhinged by events since August 5th; the daemon shadow

in the mansion, the general strain and disappointment, and the thing that occurred at the

hamlet in an October storm. After that thing I had dug a grave for one whose death I could not

understand. I knew that others could not understand either, so let them think Arthur Munroe

had wandered away. They searched, but found nothing. The squatters might have

understood, but I dared not frighten them more. I myself seemed strangely callous. That

shock at the mansion had done something to my brain, and I could think only of the quest for

a horror now grown to cataclysmic stature in my imagination; a quest which the fate of Arthur

Munroe made me vow to keep silent and solitary.

The scene of my excavations would alone have been enough to unnerve any ordinary man.

Baleful primal trees of unholy size, age, and grotesqueness leered above me like the pillars of

some hellish Druidic temple; muffling the thunder, hushing the clawing wind, and admitting but

little rain. Beyond the scarred trunks in the background, illumined by faint flashes of filtered

lightning, rose the damp ivied stones of the deserted mansion, while somewhat nearer was

the abandoned Dutch garden whose walks and beds were polluted by a white, fungous,

foetid, overnourished vegetation that never saw full daylight. And nearest of all was the

graveyard, where deformed trees tossed insane branches as their roots displaced unhallowed

slabs and sucked venom from what lay below. Now and then, beneath the brown pall of

leaves that rotted and festered in the antediluvian forest darkness, I could trace the sinister

outlines of some of those low mounds which characterised the lightning-pierced region.

History had led me to this archaic grave. History, indeed, was all I had after everything else

ended in mocking Satanism. I now believed that the lurking fear was no material thing, but a

wolf-fanged ghost that rode the midnight lightning. And I believed, because of the masses of

local tradition I had unearthed in my search with Arthur Munroe, that the ghost was that of Jan

Martense, who died in 1762. That is why I was digging idiotically in his grave.

The Martense mansion was built in 1670 by Gerrit Martense, a wealthy New-Amsterdam

merchant who disliked the changing order under British rule, and had constructed this

magnificent domicile on a remote woodland summit whose untrodden solitude and unusual

scenery pleased him. The only substantial disappointment encountered in this site was that

which concerned the prevalence of violent thunderstorms in summer. When selecting the hill

and building his mansion, Mynheer Martense had laid these frequent natural outbursts to

some peculiarity of the year; but in time he perceived that the locality was especially liable to

such phenomena. At length, having found these storms injurious to his health, he fitted up a

cellar into which he could retreat from their wildest pandemonium.

Of Gerrit Martense‘s descendants less is known than of himself; since they were all reared in

hatred of the English civilisation, and trained to shun such of the colonists as accepted it.

Their life was exceedingly secluded, and people declared that their isolation had made them

heavy of speech and comprehension. In appearance all were marked by a peculiar inherited

dissimilarity of eyes; one generally being blue and the other brown. Their social contacts grew

fewer and fewer, till at last they took to intermarrying with the numerous menial class about

the estate. Many of the crowded family degenerated, moved across the valley, and merged

with the mongrel population which was later to produce the pitiful squatters. The rest had

stuck sullenly to their ancestral mansion, becoming more and more clannish and taciturn, yet

developing a nervous responsiveness to the frequent thunderstorms.

Most of this information reached the outside world through young Jan Martense, who from

some kind of restlessness joined the colonial army when news of the Albany Convention

reached Tempest Mountain. He was the first of Gerrit‘s descendants to see much of the world;

and when he returned in 1760 after six years of campaigning, he was hated as an outsider by

his father, uncles, and brothers, in spite of his dissimilar Martense eyes. No longer could he

share the peculiarities and prejudices of the Martenses, while the very mountain

thunderstorms failed to intoxicate him as they had before. Instead, his surroundings

depressed him; and he frequently wrote to a friend in Albany of plans to leave the paternal

roof.

In the spring of 1763 Jonathan Gifford, the Albany friend of Jan Martense, became worried by

his correspondent‘s silence; especially in view of the conditions and quarrels at the Martense

mansion. Determined to visit Jan in person, he went into the mountains on horseback. His

diary states that he reached Tempest Mountain on September 20, finding the mansion in great

decrepitude. The sullen, odd-eyed Martenses, whose unclean animal aspect shocked him,

told him in broken gutturals that Jan was dead. He had, they insisted, been struck by lightning

the autumn before; and now lay buried behind the neglected sunken gardens. They shewed

the visitor the grave, barren and devoid of markers. Something in the Martenses‘ manner

gave Gifford a feeling of repulsion and suspicion, and a week later he returned with spade

and mattock to explore the sepulchral spot. He found what he expected—a skull crushed

cruelly as if by savage blows—so returning to Albany he openly charged the Martenses with

the murder of their kinsman.

Legal evidence was lacking, but the story spread rapidly round the countryside; and from that

time the Martenses were ostracised by the world. No one would deal with them, and their

distant manor was shunned as an accursed place. Somehow they managed to live on

independently by the products of their estate, for occasional lights glimpsed from far-away

hills attested their continued presence. These lights were seen as late as 1810, but toward the

last they became very infrequent.

Meanwhile there grew up about the mansion and the mountain a body of diabolic legendry.

The place was avoided with doubled assiduousness, and invested with every whispered myth

tradition could supply. It remained unvisited till 1816, when the continued absence of lights

was noticed by the squatters. At that time a party made investigations, finding the house

deserted and partly in ruins.

There were no skeletons about, so that departure rather than death was inferred. The clan

seemed to have left several years before, and improvised penthouses shewed how numerous

it had grown prior to its migration. Its cultural level had fallen very low, as proved by decaying

furniture and scattered silverware which must have been long abandoned when its owners

left. But though the dreaded Martenses were gone, the fear of the haunted house continued;

and grew very acute when new and strange stories arose among the mountain decadents.

There it stood; deserted, feared, and linked with the vengeful ghost of Jan Martense. There it

still stood on the night I dug in Jan Martense‘s grave.

I have described my protracted digging as idiotic, and such it indeed was in object and

method. The coffin of Jan Martense had soon been unearthed—it now held only dust and

nitre—but in my fury to exhume his ghost I delved irrationally and clumsily down beneath

where he had lain. God knows what I expected to find—I only felt that I was digging in the

grave of a man whose ghost stalked by night.

It is impossible to say what monstrous depth I had attained when my spade, and soon my

feet, broke through the ground beneath. The event, under the circumstances, was

tremendous; for in the existence of a subterranean space here, my mad theories had terrible

confirmation. My slight fall had extinguished the lantern, but I produced an electric pocket

lamp and viewed the small horizontal tunnel which led away indefinitely in both directions. It

was amply large enough for a man to wriggle through; and though no sane person would

have tried it at that time, I forgot danger, reason, and cleanliness in my single-minded fever to

unearth the lurking fear. Choosing the direction toward the house, I scrambled recklessly into

the narrow burrow; squirming ahead blindly and rapidly, and flashing but seldom the lamp I

kept before me.

What language can describe the spectacle of a man lost in infinitely abysmal earth; pawing,

twisting, wheezing; scrambling madly through sunken convolutions of immemorial blackness

without an idea of time, safety, direction, or definite object? There is something hideous in it,

but that is what I did. I did it for so long that life faded to a far memory, and I became one with

the moles and grubs of nighted depths. Indeed, it was only by accident that after interminable

writhings I jarred my forgotten electric lamp alight, so that it shone eerily along the burrow of

caked loam that stretched and curved ahead.

I had been scrambling in this way for some time, so that my battery had burned very low,

when the passage suddenly inclined sharply upward, altering my mode of progress. And as I

raised my glance it was without preparation that I saw glistening in the distance two

daemoniac reflections of my expiring lamp; two reflections glowing with a baneful and

unmistakable effulgence, and provoking maddeningly nebulous memories. I stopped

automatically, though lacking the brain to retreat. The eyes approached, yet of the thing that

bore them I could distinguish only a claw. But what a claw! Then far overhead I heard a faint

crashing which I recognised. It was the wild thunder of the mountain, raised to hysteric fury—I

must have been crawling upward for some time, so that the surface was now quite near. And

as the muffled thunder clattered, those eyes still stared with vacuous viciousness.

Thank God I did not then know what it was, else I should have died. But I was saved by the

very thunder that had summoned it, for after a hideous wait there burst from the unseen

outside sky one of those frequent mountainward bolts whose aftermath I had noticed here and

there as gashes of disturbed earth and fulgurites of various sizes. With Cyclopean rage it tore

through the soil above that damnable pit, blinding and deafening me, yet not wholly reducing

me to a coma.

In the chaos of sliding, shifting earth I clawed and floundered helplessly till the rain on my

head steadied me and I saw that I had come to the surface in a familiar spot; a steep

unforested place on the southwest slope of the mountain. Recurrent sheet lightnings illumed

the tumbled ground and the remains of the curious low hummock which had stretched down

from the wooded higher slope, but there was nothing in the chaos to shew my place of egress

from the lethal catacomb. My brain was as great a chaos as the earth, and as a distant red

glare burst on the landscape from the south I hardly realised the horror I had been through.

But when two days later the squatters told me what the red glare meant, I felt more horror

than that which the mould-burrow and the claw and eyes had given; more horror because of

the overwhelming implications. In a hamlet twenty miles away an orgy of fear had followed the

bolt which brought me above ground, and a nameless thing had dropped from an

overhanging tree into a weak-roofed cabin. It had done a deed, but the squatters had fired the

cabin in frenzy before it could escape. It had been doing that deed at the very moment the

earth caved in on the thing with the claw and eyes.

IV. The Horror in the Eyes

There can be nothing normal in the mind of one who, knowing what I knew of the horrors of

Tempest Mountain, would seek alone for the fear that lurked there. That at least two of the

fear‘s embodiments were destroyed, formed but a slight guarantee of mental and physical

safety in this Acheron of multiform diabolism; yet I continued my quest with even greater zeal

as events and revelations became more monstrous.

When, two days after my frightful crawl through that crypt of the eyes and claw, I learned that

a thing had malignly hovered twenty miles away at the same instant the eyes were glaring at

me, I experienced virtual convulsions of fright. But that fright was so mixed with wonder and

alluring grotesqueness, that it was almost a pleasant sensation. Sometimes, in the throes of a

nightmare when unseen powers whirl one over the roofs of strange dead cities toward the

grinning chasm of Nis, it is a relief and even a delight to shriek wildly and throw oneself

voluntarily along with the hideous vortex of dream-doom into whatever bottomless gulf may

yawn. And so it was with the waking nightmare of Tempest Mountain; the discovery that two

monsters had haunted the spot gave me ultimately a mad craving to plunge into the very

earth of the accursed region, and with bare hands dig out the death that leered from every

inch of the poisonous soil.

As soon as possible I visited the grave of Jan Martense and dug vainly where I had dug

before. Some extensive cave-in had obliterated all trace of the underground passage, while

the rain had washed so much earth back into the excavation that I could not tell how deeply I

had dug that other day. I likewise made a difficult trip to the distant hamlet where the death-

creature had been burnt, and was little repaid for my trouble. In the ashes of the fateful cabin I

found several bones, but apparently none of the monster‘s. The squatters said the thing had

had only one victim; but in this I judged them inaccurate, since besides the complete skull of a

human being, there was another bony fragment which seemed certainly to have belonged to

a human skull at some time. Though the rapid drop of the monster had been seen, no one

could say just what the creature was like; those who had glimpsed it called it simply a devil.

Examining the great tree where it had lurked, I could discern no distinctive marks. I tried to

find some trail into the black forest, but on this occasion could not stand the sight of those

morbidly large boles, or of those vast serpent-like roots that twisted so malevolently before

they sank into the earth.

My next step was to re-examine with microscopic care the deserted hamlet where death had

come most abundantly, and where Arthur Munroe had seen something he never lived to

describe. Though my vain previous searches had been exceedingly minute, I now had new

data to test; for my horrible grave-crawl convinced me that at least one of the phases of the

monstrosity had been an underground creature. This time, on the fourteenth of November, my

quest concerned itself mostly with the slopes of Cone Mountain and Maple Hill where they

overlook the unfortunate hamlet, and I gave particular attention to the loose earth of the

landslide region on the latter eminence.

The afternoon of my search brought nothing to light, and dusk came as I stood on Maple Hill

looking down at the hamlet and across the valley to Tempest Mountain. There had been a

gorgeous sunset, and now the moon came up, nearly full and shedding a silver flood over the

plain, the distant mountainside, and the curious low mounds that rose here and there. It was a

peaceful Arcadian scene, but knowing what it hid I hated it. I hated the mocking moon, the

hypocritical plain, the festering mountain, and those sinister mounds. Everything seemed to

me tainted with a loathsome contagion, and inspired by a noxious alliance with distorted

hidden powers.

Presently, as I gazed abstractedly at the moonlit panorama, my eye became attracted by

something singular in the nature and arrangement of a certain topographical element. Without

having any exact knowledge of geology, I had from the first been interested in the odd

mounds and hummocks of the region. I had noticed that they were pretty widely distributed

around Tempest Mountain, though less numerous on the plain than near the hill-top itself,

where prehistoric glaciation had doubtless found feebler opposition to its striking and fantastic

caprices. Now, in the light of that low moon which cast long weird shadows, it struck me

forcibly that the various points and lines of the mound system had a peculiar relation to the

summit of Tempest Mountain. That summit was undeniably a centre from which the lines or

rows of points radiated indefinitely and irregularly, as if the unwholesome Martense mansion

had thrown visible tentacles of terror. The idea of such tentacles gave me an unexplained

thrill, and I stopped to analyse my reason for believing these mounds glacial phenomena.

The more I analysed the less I believed, and against my newly opened mind there began to

beat grotesque and horrible analogies based on superficial aspects and upon my experience

beneath the earth. Before I knew it I was uttering frenzied and disjointed words to myself: ―My

God! . . . Molehills . . . the damned place must be honeycombed . . . how many . . . that night

at the mansion . . . they took Bennett and Tobey first . . . on each side of us. . . .‖ Then I was

digging frantically into the mound which had stretched nearest me; digging desperately,

shiveringly, but almost jubilantly; digging and at last shrieking aloud with some unplaced

emotion as I came upon a tunnel or burrow just like the one through which I had crawled on

that other daemoniac night.

After that I recall running, spade in hand; a hideous run across moon-litten, mound-marked

meadows and through diseased, precipitous abysses of haunted hillside forest; leaping,

screaming, panting, bounding toward the terrible Martense mansion. I recall digging

unreasoningly in all parts of the brier-choked cellar; digging to find the core and centre of that

malignant universe of mounds. And then I recall how I laughed when I stumbled on the

passageway; the hole at the base of the old chimney, where the thick weeds grew and cast

queer shadows in the light of the lone candle I had happened to have with me. What still

remained down in that hell-hive, lurking and waiting for the thunder to arouse it, I did not

know. Two had been killed; perhaps that had finished it. But still there remained that burning

determination to reach the innermost secret of the fear, which I had once more come to deem

definite, material, and organic.

My indecisive speculation whether to explore the passage alone and immediately with my

pocket-light or to try to assemble a band of squatters for the quest, was interrupted after a

time by a sudden rush of wind from outside which blew out the candle and left me in stark

blackness. The moon no longer shone through the chinks and apertures above me, and with

a sense of fateful alarm I heard the sinister and significant rumble of approaching thunder. A

confusion of associated ideas possessed my brain, leading me to grope back toward the

farthest corner of the cellar. My eyes, however, never turned away from the horrible opening

at the base of the chimney; and I began to get glimpses of the crumbling bricks and unhealthy

weeds as faint glows of lightning penetrated the woods outside and illumined the chinks in the

upper wall. Every second I was consumed with a mixture of fear and curiosity. What would the

storm call forth—or was there anything left for it to call? Guided by a lightning flash I settled

myself down behind a dense clump of vegetation, through which I could see the opening

without being seen.

If heaven is merciful, it will some day efface from my consciousness the sight that I saw, and

let me live my last years in peace. I cannot sleep at night now, and have to take opiates when

it thunders. The thing came abruptly and unannounced; a daemon, rat-like scurrying from pits

remote and unimaginable, a hellish panting and stifled grunting, and then from that opening

beneath the chimney a burst of multitudinous and leprous life—a loathsome night-spawned

flood of organic corruption more devastatingly hideous than the blackest conjurations of

mortal madness and morbidity. Seething, stewing, surging, bubbling like serpents‘ slime it

rolled up and out of that yawning hole, spreading like a septic contagion and streaming from

the cellar at every point of egress—streaming out to scatter through the accursed midnight

forests and strew fear, madness, and death.

God knows how many there were—there must have been thousands. To see the stream of

them in that faint, intermittent lightning was shocking. When they had thinned out enough to

be glimpsed as separate organisms, I saw that they were dwarfed, deformed hairy devils or

apes—monstrous and diabolic caricatures of the monkey tribe. They were so hideously silent;

there was hardly a squeal when one of the last stragglers turned with the skill of long practice

to make a meal in accustomed fashion on a weaker companion. Others snapped up what it

left and ate with slavering relish. Then, in spite of my daze of fright and disgust, my morbid

curiosity triumphed; and as the last of the monstrosities oozed up alone from that nether world

of unknown nightmare, I drew my automatic pistol and shot it under cover of the thunder.

Shrieking, slithering, torrential shadows of red viscous madness chasing one another through

endless, ensanguined corridors of purple fulgurous sky . . . formless phantasms and

kaleidoscopic mutations of a ghoulish, remembered scene; forests of monstrous

overnourished oaks with serpent roots twisting and sucking unnamable juices from an earth

verminous with millions of cannibal devils; mound-like tentacles groping from underground

nuclei of polypous perversion . . . insane lightning over malignant ivied walls and daemon

arcades choked with fungous vegetation. . . . Heaven be thanked for the instinct which led me

unconscious to places where men dwell; to the peaceful village that slept under the calm stars

of clearing skies.

I had recovered enough in a week to send to Albany for a gang of men to blow up the

Martense mansion and the entire top of Tempest Mountain with dynamite, stop up all the

discoverable mound-burrows, and destroy certain overnourished trees whose very existence

seemed an insult to sanity. I could sleep a little after they had done this, but true rest will

never come as long as I remember that nameless secret of the lurking fear. The thing will

haunt me, for who can say the extermination is complete, and that analogous phenomena do

not exist all over the world? Who can, with my knowledge, think of the earth‘s unknown

caverns without a nightmare dread of future possibilities? I cannot see a well or a subway

entrance without shuddering . . . why cannot the doctors give me something to make me

sleep, or truly calm my brain when it thunders?

What I saw in the glow of my flashlight after I shot the unspeakable straggling object was so

simple that almost a minute elapsed before I understood and went delirious. The object was

nauseous; a filthy whitish gorilla thing with sharp yellow fangs and matted fur. It was the

ultimate product of mammalian degeneration; the frightful outcome of isolated spawning,

multiplication, and cannibal nutrition above and below the ground; the embodiment of all the

snarling chaos and grinning fear that lurk behind life. It had looked at me as it died, and its

eyes had the same odd quality that marked those other eyes which had stared at me

underground and excited cloudy recollections. One eye was blue, the other brown. They were

the dissimilar Martense eyes of the old legends, and I knew in one inundating cataclysm of

voiceless horror what had become of that vanished family; the terrible and thunder-crazed

house of Martense.

Return to Table of Contents

The Rats in the Walls

(1923)

On July 16, 1923, I moved into Exham Priory after the last workman had finished his labours.

The restoration had been a stupendous task, for little had remained of the deserted pile but a

shell-like ruin; yet because it had been the seat of my ancestors I let no expense deter me.

The place had not been inhabited since the reign of James the First, when a tragedy of

intensely hideous, though largely unexplained, nature had struck down the master, five of his

children, and several servants; and driven forth under a cloud of suspicion and terror the third

son, my lineal progenitor and the only survivor of the abhorred line. With this sole heir

denounced as a murderer, the estate had reverted to the crown, nor had the accused man

made any attempt to exculpate himself or regain his property. Shaken by some horror greater

than that of conscience or the law, and expressing only a frantic wish to exclude the ancient

edifice from his sight and memory, Walter de la Poer, eleventh Baron Exham, fled to Virginia

and there founded the family which by the next century had become known as Delapore.

Exham Priory had remained untenanted, though later allotted to the estates of the Norrys

family and much studied because of its peculiarly composite architecture; an architecture

involving Gothic towers resting on a Saxon or Romanesque substructure, whose foundation in

turn was of a still earlier order or blend of orders—Roman, and even Druidic or native Cymric,

if legends speak truly. This foundation was a very singular thing, being merged on one side

with the solid limestone of the precipice from whose brink the priory overlooked a desolate

valley three miles west of the village of Anchester. Architects and antiquarians loved to

examine this strange relic of forgotten centuries, but the country folk hated it. They had hated

it hundreds of years before, when my ancestors lived there, and they hated it now, with the

moss and mould of abandonment on it. I had not been a day in Anchester before I knew I

came of an accursed house. And this week workmen have blown up Exham Priory, and are

busy obliterating the traces of its foundations.

The bare statistics of my ancestry I had always known, together with the fact that my first

American forbear had come to the colonies under a strange cloud. Of details, however, I had

been kept wholly ignorant through the policy of reticence always maintained by the

Delapores. Unlike our planter neighbours, we seldom boasted of crusading ancestors or other

mediaeval and Renaissance heroes; nor was any kind of tradition handed down except what

may have been recorded in the sealed envelope left before the Civil War by every squire to

his eldest son for posthumous opening. The glories we cherished were those achieved since

the migration; the glories of a proud and honourable, if somewhat reserved and unsocial

Virginia line.

During the war our fortunes were extinguished and our whole existence changed by the

burning of Carfax, our home on the banks of the James. My grandfather, advanced in years,

had perished in that incendiary outrage, and with him the envelope that bound us all to the

past. I can recall that fire today as I saw it then at the age of seven, with the Federal soldiers

shouting, the women screaming, and the negroes howling and praying. My father was in the

army, defending Richmond, and after many formalities my mother and I were passed through

the lines to join him. When the war ended we all moved north, whence my mother had come;

and I grew to manhood, middle age, and ultimate wealth as a stolid Yankee. Neither my father

nor I ever knew what our hereditary envelope had contained, and as I merged into the

greyness of Massachusetts business life I lost all interest in the mysteries which evidently

lurked far back in my family tree. Had I suspected their nature, how gladly I would have left

Exham Priory to its moss, bats, and cobwebs!

My father died in 1904, but without any message to leave me, or to my only child, Alfred, a

motherless boy of ten. It was this boy who reversed the order of family information; for

although I could give him only jesting conjectures about the past, he wrote me of some very

interesting ancestral legends when the late war took him to England in 1917 as an aviation

officer. Apparently the Delapores had a colourful and perhaps sinister history, for a friend of

my son‘s, Capt. Edward Norrys of the Royal Flying Corps, dwelt near the family seat at

Anchester and related some peasant superstitions which few novelists could equal for

wildness and incredibility. Norrys himself, of course, did not take them seriously; but they

amused my son and made good material for his letters to me. It was this legendry which

definitely turned my attention to my transatlantic heritage, and made me resolve to purchase

and restore the family seat which Norrys shewed to Alfred in its picturesque desertion, and

offered to get for him at a surprisingly reasonable figure, since his own uncle was the present

owner.

I bought Exham Priory in 1918, but was almost immediately distracted from my plans of

restoration by the return of my son as a maimed invalid. During the two years that he lived I

thought of nothing but his care, having even placed my business under the direction of

partners. In 1921, as I found myself bereaved and aimless, a retired manufacturer no longer

young, I resolved to divert my remaining years with my new possession. Visiting Anchester in

December, I was entertained by Capt. Norrys, a plump, amiable young man who had thought

much of my son, and secured his assistance in gathering plans and anecdotes to guide in the

coming restoration. Exham Priory itself I saw without emotion, a jumble of tottering mediaeval

ruins covered with lichens and honeycombed with rooks‘ nests, perched perilously upon a

precipice, and denuded of floors or other interior features save the stone walls of the separate

towers.

As I gradually recovered the image of the edifice as it had been when my ancestor left it over

three centuries before, I began to hire workmen for the reconstruction. In every case I was

forced to go outside the immediate locality, for the Anchester villagers had an almost

unbelievable fear and hatred of the place. This sentiment was so great that it was sometimes

communicated to the outside labourers, causing numerous desertions; whilst its scope

appeared to include both the priory and its ancient family.

My son had told me that he was somewhat avoided during his visits because he was a de la

Poer, and I now found myself subtly ostracised for a like reason until I convinced the peasants

how little I knew of my heritage. Even then they sullenly disliked me, so that I had to collect

most of the village traditions through the mediation of Norrys. What the people could not

forgive, perhaps, was that I had come to restore a symbol so abhorrent to them; for, rationally

or not, they viewed Exham Priory as nothing less than a haunt of fiends and werewolves.

Piecing together the tales which Norrys collected for me, and supplementing them with the

accounts of several savants who had studied the ruins, I deduced that Exham Priory stood on

the site of a prehistoric temple; a Druidical or ante-Druidical thing which must have been

contemporary with Stonehenge. That indescribable rites had been celebrated there, few

doubted; and there were unpleasant tales of the transference of these rites into the Cybele-

worship which the Romans had introduced. Inscriptions still visible in the sub-cellar bore such

unmistakable letters as ―DIV . . . OPS . . . MAGNA. MAT . . . ― sign of the Magna Mater whose

dark worship was once vainly forbidden to Roman citizens. Anchester had been the camp of

the third Augustan legion, as many remains attest, and it was said that the temple of Cybele

was splendid and thronged with worshippers who performed nameless ceremonies at the

bidding of a Phrygian priest. Tales added that the fall of the old religion did not end the orgies

at the temple, but that the priests lived on in the new faith without real change. Likewise was it

said that the rites did not vanish with the Roman power, and that certain among the Saxons

added to what remained of the temple, and gave it the essential outline it subsequently

preserved, making it the centre of a cult feared through half the heptarchy. About 1000 A.D.

the place is mentioned in a chronicle as being a substantial stone priory housing a strange

and powerful monastic order and surrounded by extensive gardens which needed no walls to

exclude a frightened populace. It was never destroyed by the Danes, though after the Norman

Conquest it must have declined tremendously; since there was no impediment when Henry

the Third granted the site to my ancestor, Gilbert de la Poer, First Baron Exham, in 1261.

Of my family before this date there is no evil report, but something strange must have

happened then. In one chronicle there is a reference to a de la Poer as ―cursed of God‖ in

1307, whilst village legendry had nothing but evil and frantic fear to tell of the castle that went

up on the foundations of the old temple and priory. The fireside tales were of the most grisly

description, all the ghastlier because of their frightened reticence and cloudy evasiveness.

They represented my ancestors as a race of hereditary daemons beside whom Gilles de Retz

and the Marquis de Sade would seem the veriest tyros, and hinted whisperingly at their

responsibility for the occasional disappearance of villagers through several generations.

The worst characters, apparently, were the barons and their direct heirs; at least, most was

whispered about these. If of healthier inclinations, it was said, an heir would early and

mysteriously die to make way for another more typical scion. There seemed to be an inner

cult in the family, presided over by the head of the house, and sometimes closed except to a

few members. Temperament rather than ancestry was evidently the basis of this cult, for it

was entered by several who married into the family. Lady Margaret Trevor from Cornwall, wife

of Godfrey, the second son of the fifth baron, became a favourite bane of children all over the

countryside, and the daemon heroine of a particularly horrible old ballad not yet extinct near

the Welsh border. Preserved in balladry, too, though not illustrating the same point, is the

hideous tale of Lady Mary de la Poer, who shortly after her marriage to the Earl of Shrewsfield

was killed by him and his mother, both of the slayers being absolved and blessed by the priest

to whom they confessed what they dared not repeat to the world.

These myths and ballads, typical as they were of crude superstition, repelled me greatly. Their

persistence, and their application to so long a line of my ancestors, were especially annoying;

whilst the imputations of monstrous habits proved unpleasantly reminiscent of the one known

scandal of my immediate forbears—the case of my cousin, young Randolph Delapore of

Carfax, who went among the negroes and became a voodoo priest after he returned from the

Mexican War.

I was much less disturbed by the vaguer tales of wails and howlings in the barren, windswept

valley beneath the limestone cliff; of the graveyard stenches after the spring rains; of the

floundering, squealing white thing on which Sir John Clave‘s horse had trod one night in a

lonely field; and of the servant who had gone mad at what he saw in the priory in the full light

of day. These things were hackneyed spectral lore, and I was at that time a pronounced

sceptic. The accounts of vanished peasants were less to be dismissed, though not especially

significant in view of mediaeval custom. Prying curiosity meant death, and more than one

severed head had been publicly shewn on the bastions—now effaced—around Exham Priory.

A few of the tales were exceedingly picturesque, and made me wish I had learnt more of

comparative mythology in my youth. There was, for instance, the belief that a legion of bat-

winged devils kept Witches‘ Sabbath each night at the priory—a legion whose sustenance

might explain the disproportionate abundance of coarse vegetables harvested in the vast

gardens. And, most vivid of all, there was the dramatic epic of the rats—the scampering army

of obscene vermin which had burst forth from the castle three months after the tragedy that

doomed it to desertion—the lean, filthy, ravenous army which had swept all before it and

devoured fowl, cats, dogs, hogs, sheep, and even two hapless human beings before its fury

was spent. Around that unforgettable rodent army a whole separate cycle of myths revolves,

for it scattered among the village homes and brought curses and horrors in its train.

Such was the lore that assailed me as I pushed to completion, with an elderly obstinacy, the

work of restoring my ancestral home. It must not be imagined for a moment that these tales

formed my principal psychological environment. On the other hand, I was constantly praised

and encouraged by Capt. Norrys and the antiquarians who surrounded and aided me. When

the task was done, over two years after its commencement, I viewed the great rooms,

wainscotted walls, vaulted ceilings, mullioned windows, and broad staircases with a pride

which fully compensated for the prodigious expense of the restoration. Every attribute of the

Middle Ages was cunningly reproduced, and the new parts blended perfectly with the original

walls and foundations. The seat of my fathers was complete, and I looked forward to

redeeming at last the local fame of the line which ended in me. I would reside here

permanently, and prove that a de la Poer (for I had adopted again the original spelling of the

name) need not be a fiend. My comfort was perhaps augmented by the fact that, although

Exham Priory was mediaevally fitted, its interior was in truth wholly new and free from old

vermin and old ghosts alike.

As I have said, I moved in on July 16, 1923. My household consisted of seven servants and

nine cats, of which latter species I am particularly fond. My eldest cat, ―Nigger-Man‖, was

seven years old and had come with me from my home in Bolton, Massachusetts; the others I

had accumulated whilst living with Capt. Norrys‘ family during the restoration of the priory. For

five days our routine proceeded with the utmost placidity, my time being spent mostly in the

codification of old family data. I had now obtained some very circumstantial accounts of the

final tragedy and flight of Walter de la Poer, which I conceived to be the probable contents of

the hereditary paper lost in the fire at Carfax. It appeared that my ancestor was accused with

much reason of having killed all the other members of his household, except four servant

confederates, in their sleep, about two weeks after a shocking discovery which changed his

whole demeanour, but which, except by implication, he disclosed to no one save perhaps the

servants who assisted him and afterward fled beyond reach.

This deliberate slaughter, which included a father, three brothers, and two sisters, was largely

condoned by the villagers, and so slackly treated by the law that its perpetrator escaped

honoured, unharmed, and undisguised to Virginia; the general whispered sentiment being that

he had purged the land of an immemorial curse. What discovery had prompted an act so

terrible, I could scarcely even conjecture. Walter de la Poer must have known for years the

sinister tales about his family, so that this material could have given him no fresh impulse.

Had he, then, witnessed some appalling ancient rite, or stumbled upon some frightful and

revealing symbol in the priory or its vicinity? He was reputed to have been a shy, gentle youth

in England. In Virginia he seemed not so much hard or bitter as harassed and apprehensive.

He was spoken of in the diary of another gentleman-adventurer, Francis Harley of Bellview, as

a man of unexampled justice, honour, and delicacy.

On July 22 occurred the first incident which, though lightly dismissed at the time, takes on a

preternatural significance in relation to later events. It was so simple as to be almost

negligible, and could not possibly have been noticed under the circumstances; for it must be

recalled that since I was in a building practically fresh and new except for the walls, and

surrounded by a well-balanced staff of servitors, apprehension would have been absurd

despite the locality. What I afterward remembered is merely this—that my old black cat,

whose moods I know so well, was undoubtedly alert and anxious to an extent wholly out of

keeping with his natural character. He roved from room to room, restless and disturbed, and

sniffed constantly about the walls which formed part of the old Gothic structure. I realise how

trite this sounds—like the inevitable dog in the ghost story, which always growls before his

master sees the sheeted figure—yet I cannot consistently suppress it.

The following day a servant complained of restlessness among all the cats in the house. He

came to me in my study, a lofty west room on the second story, with groined arches, black oak

panelling, and a triple Gothic window overlooking the limestone cliff and desolate valley; and

even as he spoke I saw the jetty form of Nigger-Man creeping along the west wall and

scratching at the new panels which overlaid the ancient stone. I told the man that there must

be some singular odour or emanation from the old stonework, imperceptible to human

senses, but affecting the delicate organs of cats even through the new woodwork. This I truly

believed, and when the fellow suggested the presence of mice or rats, I mentioned that there

had been no rats there for three hundred years, and that even the field mice of the

surrounding country could hardly be found in these high walls, where they had never been

known to stray. That afternoon I called on Capt. Norrys, and he assured me that it would be

quite incredible for field mice to infest the priory in such a sudden and unprecedented fashion.

That night, dispensing as usual with a valet, I retired in the west tower chamber which I had

chosen as my own, reached from the study by a stone staircase and short gallery—the former

partly ancient, the latter entirely restored. This room was circular, very high, and without

wainscotting, being hung with arras which I had myself chosen in London. Seeing that Nigger-

Man was with me, I shut the heavy Gothic door and retired by the light of the electric bulbs

which so cleverly counterfeited candles, finally switching off the light and sinking on the

carved and canopied four-poster, with the venerable cat in his accustomed place across my

feet. I did not draw the curtains, but gazed out at the narrow north window which I faced.

There was a suspicion of aurora in the sky, and the delicate traceries of the window were

pleasantly silhouetted.

At some time I must have fallen quietly asleep, for I recall a distinct sense of leaving strange

dreams, when the cat started violently from his placid position. I saw him in the faint auroral

glow, head strained forward, fore feet on my ankles, and hind feet stretched behind. He was

looking intensely at a point on the wall somewhat west of the window, a point which to my eye

had nothing to mark it, but toward which all my attention was now directed. And as I watched,

I knew that Nigger-Man was not vainly excited. Whether the arras actually moved I cannot

say. I think it did, very slightly. But what I can swear to is that behind it I heard a low, distinct

scurrying as of rats or mice. In a moment the cat had jumped bodily on the screening tapestry,

bringing the affected section to the floor with his weight, and exposing a damp, ancient wall of

stone; patched here and there by the restorers, and devoid of any trace of rodent prowlers.

Nigger-Man raced up and down the floor by this part of the wall, clawing the fallen arras and

seemingly trying at times to insert a paw between the wall and the oaken floor. He found

nothing, and after a time returned wearily to his place across my feet. I had not moved, but I

did not sleep again that night.

In the morning I questioned all the servants, and found that none of them had noticed

anything unusual, save that the cook remembered the actions of a cat which had rested on

her windowsill. This cat had howled at some unknown hour of the night, awaking the cook in

time for her to see him dart purposefully out of the open door down the stairs. I drowsed away

the noontime, and in the afternoon called again on Capt. Norrys, who became exceedingly

interested in what I told him. The odd incidents—so slight yet so curious—appealed to his

sense of the picturesque, and elicited from him a number of reminiscences of local ghostly

lore. We were genuinely perplexed at the presence of rats, and Norrys lent me some traps

and Paris green, which I had the servants place in strategic localities when I returned.

I retired early, being very sleepy, but was harassed by dreams of the most horrible sort. I

seemed to be looking down from an immense height upon a twilit grotto, knee-deep with filth,

where a white-bearded daemon swineherd drove about with his staff a flock of fungous, flabby

beasts whose appearance filled me with unutterable loathing. Then, as the swineherd paused

and nodded over his task, a mighty swarm of rats rained down on the stinking abyss and fell

to devouring beasts and man alike.

From this terrific vision I was abruptly awaked by the motions of Nigger-Man, who had been

sleeping as usual across my feet. This time I did not have to question the source of his snarls

and hisses, and of the fear which made him sink his claws into my ankle, unconscious of their

effect; for on every side of the chamber the walls were alive with nauseous sound—the

verminous slithering of ravenous, gigantic rats. There was now no aurora to shew the state of

the arras—the fallen section of which had been replaced—but I was not too frightened to

switch on the light.

As the bulbs leapt into radiance I saw a hideous shaking all over the tapestry, causing the

somewhat peculiar designs to execute a singular dance of death. This motion disappeared

almost at once, and the sound with it. Springing out of bed, I poked at the arras with the long

handle of a warming-pan that rested near, and lifted one section to see what lay beneath.

There was nothing but the patched stone wall, and even the cat had lost his tense realisation

of abnormal presences. When I examined the circular trap that had been placed in the room, I

found all of the openings sprung, though no trace remained of what had been caught and had

escaped.

Further sleep was out of the question, so, lighting a candle, I opened the door and went out in

the gallery toward the stairs to my study, Nigger-Man following at my heels. Before we had

reached the stone steps, however, the cat darted ahead of me and vanished down the ancient

flight. As I descended the stairs myself, I became suddenly aware of sounds in the great room

below; sounds of a nature which could not be mistaken. The oak-panelled walls were alive

with rats, scampering and milling, whilst Nigger-Man was racing about with the fury of a

baffled hunter. Reaching the bottom, I switched on the light, which did not this time cause the

noise to subside. The rats continued their riot, stampeding with such force and distinctness

that I could finally assign to their motions a definite direction. These creatures, in numbers

apparently inexhaustible, were engaged in one stupendous migration from inconceivable

heights to some depth conceivably, or inconceivably, below.

I now heard steps in the corridor, and in another moment two servants pushed open the

massive door. They were searching the house for some unknown source of disturbance which

had thrown all the cats into a snarling panic and caused them to plunge precipitately down

several flights of stairs and squat, yowling, before the closed door to the sub-cellar. I asked

them if they had heard the rats, but they replied in the negative. And when I turned to call their

attention to the sounds in the panels, I realised that the noise had ceased. With the two men, I

went down to the door of the sub-cellar, but found the cats already dispersed. Later I resolved

to explore the crypt below, but for the present I merely made a round of the traps. All were

sprung, yet all were tenantless. Satisfying myself that no one had heard the rats save the

felines and me, I sat in my study till morning; thinking profoundly, and recalling every scrap of

legend I had unearthed concerning the building I inhabited.

I slept some in the forenoon, leaning back in the one comfortable library chair which my

mediaeval plan of furnishing could not banish. Later I telephoned to Capt. Norrys, who came

over and helped me explore the sub-cellar. Absolutely nothing untoward was found, although

we could not repress a thrill at the knowledge that this vault was built by Roman hands. Every

low arch and massive pillar was Roman—not the debased Romanesque of the bungling

Saxons, but the severe and harmonious classicism of the age of the Caesars; indeed, the

walls abounded with inscriptions familiar to the antiquarians who had repeatedly explored the

place—things like ―P.GETAE. PROP . . . TEMP . . . DONA . . .‖ and ―L. PRAEC . . . VS . . .

PONTIFI . . . ATYS . . .‖

The reference to Atys made me shiver, for I had read Catullus and knew something of the

hideous rites of the Eastern god, whose worship was so mixed with that of Cybele. Norrys

and I, by the light of lanterns, tried to interpret the odd and nearly effaced designs on certain

irregularly rectangular blocks of stone generally held to be altars, but could make nothing of

them. We remembered that one pattern, a sort of rayed sun, was held by students to imply a

non-Roman origin, suggesting that these altars had merely been adopted by the Roman

priests from some older and perhaps aboriginal temple on the same site. On one of these

blocks were some brown stains which made me wonder. The largest, in the centre of the

room, had certain features on the upper surface which indicated its connexion with fire—

probably burnt offerings.

Such were the sights in that crypt before whose door the cats had howled, and where Norrys

and I now determined to pass the night. Couches were brought down by the servants, who

were told not to mind any nocturnal actions of the cats, and Nigger-Man was admitted as

much for help as for companionship. We decided to keep the great oak door—a modern

replica with slits for ventilation—tightly closed; and, with this attended to, we retired with

lanterns still burning to await whatever might occur.

The vault was very deep in the foundations of the priory, and undoubtedly far down on the

face of the beetling limestone cliff overlooking the waste valley. That it had been the goal of

the scuffling and unexplainable rats I could not doubt, though why, I could not tell. As we lay

there expectantly, I found my vigil occasionally mixed with half-formed dreams from which the

uneasy motions of the cat across my feet would rouse me. These dreams were not

wholesome, but horribly like the one I had had the night before. I saw again the twilit grotto,

and the swineherd with his unmentionable fungous beasts wallowing in filth, and as I looked

at these things they seemed nearer and more distinct—so distinct that I could almost observe

their features. Then I did observe the flabby features of one of them—and awaked with such a

scream that Nigger-Man started up, whilst Capt. Norrys, who had not slept, laughed

considerably. Norrys might have laughed more—or perhaps less—had he known what it was

that made me scream. But I did not remember myself till later. Ultimate horror often paralyses

memory in a merciful way.

Norrys waked me when the phenomena began. Out of the same frightful dream I was called

by his gentle shaking and his urging to listen to the cats. Indeed, there was much to listen to,

for beyond the closed door at the head of the stone steps was a veritable nightmare of feline

yelling and clawing, whilst Nigger-Man, unmindful of his kindred outside, was running

excitedly around the bare stone walls, in which I heard the same babel of scurrying rats that

had troubled me the night before.

An acute terror now rose within me, for here were anomalies which nothing normal could well

explain. These rats, if not the creatures of a madness which I shared with the cats alone, must

be burrowing and sliding in Roman walls I had thought to be of solid limestone blocks . . .

unless perhaps the action of water through more than seventeen centuries had eaten winding

tunnels which rodent bodies had worn clear and ample. . . . But even so, the spectral horror

was no less; for if these were living vermin why did not Norrys hear their disgusting

commotion? Why did he urge me to watch Nigger-Man and listen to the cats outside, and why

did he guess wildly and vaguely at what could have aroused them?

By the time I had managed to tell him, as rationally as I could, what I thought I was hearing,

my ears gave me the last fading impression of the scurrying; which had retreated still

downward, far underneath this deepest of sub-cellars till it seemed as if the whole cliff below

were riddled with questing rats. Norrys was not as sceptical as I had anticipated, but instead

seemed profoundly moved. He motioned to me to notice that the cats at the door had ceased

their clamour, as if giving up the rats for lost; whilst Nigger-Man had a burst of renewed

restlessness, and was clawing frantically around the bottom of the large stone altar in the

centre of the room, which was nearer Norrys‘ couch than mine.

My fear of the unknown was at this point very great. Something astounding had occurred, and

I saw that Capt. Norrys, a younger, stouter, and presumably more naturally materialistic man,

was affected fully as much as myself—perhaps because of his lifelong and intimate familiarity

with local legend. We could for the moment do nothing but watch the old black cat as he

pawed with decreasing fervour at the base of the altar, occasionally looking up and mewing to

me in that persuasive manner which he used when he wished me to perform some favour for

him.

Norrys now took a lantern close to the altar and examined the place where Nigger-Man was

pawing; silently kneeling and scraping away the lichens of centuries which joined the massive

pre-Roman block to the tessellated floor. He did not find anything, and was about to abandon

his effort when I noticed a trivial circumstance which made me shudder, even though it implied

nothing more than I had already imagined. I told him of it, and we both looked at its almost

imperceptible manifestation with the fixedness of fascinated discovery and acknowledgment.

It was only this—that the flame of the lantern set down near the altar was slightly but certainly

flickering from a draught of air which it had not before received, and which came indubitably

from the crevice between floor and altar where Norrys was scraping away the lichens.

We spent the rest of the night in the brilliantly lighted study, nervously discussing what we

should do next. The discovery that some vault deeper than the deepest known masonry of the

Romans underlay this accursed pile—some vault unsuspected by the curious antiquarians of

three centuries—would have been sufficient to excite us without any background of the

sinister. As it was, the fascination became twofold; and we paused in doubt whether to

abandon our search and quit the priory forever in superstitious caution, or to gratify our sense

of adventure and brave whatever horrors might await us in the unknown depths. By morning

we had compromised, and decided to go to London to gather a group of archaeologists and

scientific men fit to cope with the mystery. It should be mentioned that before leaving the sub-

cellar we had vainly tried to move the central altar which we now recognised as the gate to a

new pit of nameless fear. What secret would open the gate, wiser men than we would have to

find.

During many days in London Capt. Norrys and I presented our facts, conjectures, and

legendary anecdotes to five eminent authorities, all men who could be trusted to respect any

family disclosures which future explorations might develop. We found most of them little

disposed to scoff, but instead intensely interested and sincerely sympathetic. It is hardly

necessary to name them all, but I may say that they included Sir William Brinton, whose

excavations in the Troad excited most of the world in their day. As we all took the train for

Anchester I felt myself poised on the brink of frightful revelations, a sensation symbolised by

the air of mourning among the many Americans at the unexpected death of the President on

the other side of the world.

On the evening of August 7th we reached Exham Priory, where the servants assured me that

nothing unusual had occurred. The cats, even old Nigger-Man, had been perfectly placid; and

not a trap in the house had been sprung. We were to begin exploring on the following day,

awaiting which I assigned well-appointed rooms to all my guests. I myself retired in my own

tower chamber, with Nigger-Man across my feet. Sleep came quickly, but hideous dreams

assailed me. There was a vision of a Roman feast like that of Trimalchio, with a horror in a

covered platter. Then came that damnable, recurrent thing about the swineherd and his filthy

drove in the twilit grotto. Yet when I awoke it was full daylight, with normal sounds in the

house below. The rats, living or spectral, had not troubled me; and Nigger-Man was quietly

asleep. On going down, I found that the same tranquillity had prevailed elsewhere; a condition

which one of the assembled savants—a fellow named Thornton, devoted to the psychic—

rather absurdly laid to the fact that I had now been shewn the thing which certain forces had

wished to shew me.

All was now ready, and at 11 a.m. our entire group of seven men, bearing powerful electric

searchlights and implements of excavation, went down to the sub-cellar and bolted the door

behind us. Nigger-Man was with us, for the investigators found no occasion to despise his

excitability, and were indeed anxious that he be present in case of obscure rodent

manifestations. We noted the Roman inscriptions and unknown altar designs only briefly, for

three of the savants had already seen them, and all knew their characteristics. Prime attention

was paid to the momentous central altar, and within an hour Sir William Brinton had caused it

to tilt backward, balanced by some unknown species of counterweight.

There now lay revealed such a horror as would have overwhelmed us had we not been

prepared. Through a nearly square opening in the tiled floor, sprawling on a flight of stone

steps so prodigiously worn that it was little more than an inclined plane at the centre, was a

ghastly array of human or semi-human bones. Those which retained their collocation as

skeletons shewed attitudes of panic fear, and over all were the marks of rodent gnawing. The

skulls denoted nothing short of utter idiocy, cretinism, or primitive semi-apedom. Above the

hellishly littered steps arched a descending passage seemingly chiselled from the solid rock,

and conducting a current of air. This current was not a sudden and noxious rush as from a

closed vault, but a cool breeze with something of freshness in it. We did not pause long, but

shiveringly began to clear a passage down the steps. It was then that Sir William, examining

the hewn walls, made the odd observation that the passage, according to the direction of the

strokes, must have been chiselled from beneath.

I must be very deliberate now, and choose my words.

After ploughing down a few steps amidst the gnawed bones we saw that there was light

ahead; not any mystic phosphorescence, but a filtered daylight which could not come except

from unknown fissures in the cliff that overlooked the waste valley. That such fissures had

escaped notice from outside was hardly remarkable, for not only is the valley wholly

uninhabited, but the cliff is so high and beetling that only an aëronaut could study its face in

detail. A few steps more, and our breaths were literally snatched from us by what we saw; so

literally that Thornton, the psychic investigator, actually fainted in the arms of the dazed man

who stood behind him. Norrys, his plump face utterly white and flabby, simply cried out

inarticulately; whilst I think that what I did was to gasp or hiss, and cover my eyes. The man

behind me—the only one of the party older than I—croaked the hackneyed ―My God!‖ in the

most cracked voice I ever heard. Of seven cultivated men, only Sir William Brinton retained

his composure; a thing more to his credit because he led the party and must have seen the

sight first.

It was a twilit grotto of enormous height, stretching away farther than any eye could see; a

subterraneous world of limitless mystery and horrible suggestion. There were buildings and

other architectural remains—in one terrified glance I saw a weird pattern of tumuli, a savage

circle of monoliths, a low-domed Roman ruin, a sprawling Saxon pile, and an early English

edifice of wood—but all these were dwarfed by the ghoulish spectacle presented by the

general surface of the ground. For yards about the steps extended an insane tangle of human

bones, or bones at least as human as those on the steps. Like a foamy sea they stretched,

some fallen apart, but others wholly or partly articulated as skeletons; these latter invariably in

postures of daemoniac frenzy, either fighting off some menace or clutching other forms with

cannibal intent.

When Dr. Trask, the anthropologist, stooped to classify the skulls, he found a degraded

mixture which utterly baffled him. They were mostly lower than the Piltdown man in the scale

of evolution, but in every case definitely human. Many were of higher grade, and a very few

were the skulls of supremely and sensitively developed types. All the bones were gnawed,

mostly by rats, but somewhat by others of the half-human drove. Mixed with them were many

tiny bones of rats—fallen members of the lethal army which closed the ancient epic.

I wonder that any man among us lived and kept his sanity through that hideous day of

discovery. Not Hoffmann or Huysmans could conceive a scene more wildly incredible, more

frenetically repellent, or more Gothically grotesque than the twilit grotto through which we

seven staggered; each stumbling on revelation after revelation, and trying to keep for the

nonce from thinking of the events which must have taken place there three hundred years, or

a thousand, or two thousand, or ten thousand years ago. It was the antechamber of hell, and

poor Thornton fainted again when Trask told him that some of the skeleton things must have

descended as quadrupeds through the last twenty or more generations.

Horror piled on horror as we began to interpret the architectural remains. The quadruped

things—with their occasional recruits from the biped class—had been kept in stone pens, out

of which they must have broken in their last delirium of hunger or rat-fear. There had been

great herds of them, evidently fattened on the coarse vegetables whose remains could be

found as a sort of poisonous ensilage at the bottom of huge stone bins older than Rome. I

knew now why my ancestors had had such excessive gardens—would to heaven I could

forget! The purpose of the herds I did not have to ask.

Sir William, standing with his searchlight in the Roman ruin, translated aloud the most

shocking ritual I have ever known; and told of the diet of the antediluvian cult which the priests

of Cybele found and mingled with their own. Norrys, used as he was to the trenches, could

not walk straight when he came out of the English building. It was a butcher shop and

kitchen—he had expected that—but it was too much to see familiar English implements in

such a place, and to read familiar English graffiti there, some as recent as 1610. I could not

go in that building—that building whose daemon activities were stopped only by the dagger of

my ancestor Walter de la Poer.

What I did venture to enter was the low Saxon building, whose oaken door had fallen, and

there I found a terrible row of ten stone cells with rusty bars. Three had tenants, all skeletons

of high grade, and on the bony forefinger of one I found a seal ring with my own coat-of-arms.

Sir William found a vault with far older cells below the Roman chapel, but these cells were

empty. Below them was a low crypt with cases of formally arranged bones, some of them

bearing terrible parallel inscriptions carved in Latin, Greek, and the tongue of Phrygia.

Meanwhile, Dr. Trask had opened one of the prehistoric tumuli, and brought to light skulls

which were slightly more human than a gorilla‘s, and which bore indescribable ideographic

carvings. Through all this horror my cat stalked unperturbed. Once I saw him monstrously

perched atop a mountain of bones, and wondered at the secrets that might lie behind his

yellow eyes.

Having grasped to some slight degree the frightful revelations of this twilit area—an area so

hideously foreshadowed by my recurrent dream—we turned to that apparently boundless

depth of midnight cavern where no ray of light from the cliff could penetrate. We shall never

know what sightless Stygian worlds yawn beyond the little distance we went, for it was

decided that such secrets are not good for mankind. But there was plenty to engross us close

at hand, for we had not gone far before the searchlights shewed that accursed infinity of pits

in which the rats had feasted, and whose sudden lack of replenishment had driven the

ravenous rodent army first to turn on the living herds of starving things, and then to burst forth

from the priory in that historic orgy of devastation which the peasants will never forget.

God! those carrion black pits of sawed, picked bones and opened skulls! Those nightmare

chasms choked with the pithecanthropoid, Celtic, Roman, and English bones of countless

unhallowed centuries! Some of them were full, and none can say how deep they had once

been. Others were still bottomless to our searchlights, and peopled by unnamable fancies.

What, I thought, of the hapless rats that stumbled into such traps amidst the blackness of their

quests in this grisly Tartarus?

Once my foot slipped near a horribly yawning brink, and I had a moment of ecstatic fear. I

must have been musing a long time, for I could not see any of the party but the plump Capt.

Norrys. Then there came a sound from that inky, boundless, farther distance that I thought I

knew; and I saw my old black cat dart past me like a winged Egyptian god, straight into the

illimitable gulf of the unknown. But I was not far behind, for there was no doubt after another

second. It was the eldritch scurrying of those fiend-born rats, always questing for new horrors,

and determined to lead me on even unto those grinning caverns of earth‘s centre where

Nyarlathotep, the mad faceless god, howls blindly to the piping of two amorphous idiot flute-

players.

My searchlight expired, but still I ran. I heard voices, and yowls, and echoes, but above all

there gently rose that impious, insidious scurrying; gently rising, rising, as a stiff bloated

corpse gently rises above an oily river that flows under endless onyx bridges to a black, putrid

sea. Something bumped into me—something soft and plump. It must have been the rats; the

viscous, gelatinous, ravenous army that feast on the dead and the living. . . . Why shouldn‘t

rats eat a de la Poer as a de la Poer eats forbidden things? . . . The war ate my boy, damn

them all . . . and the Yanks ate Carfax with flames and burnt Grandsire Delapore and the

secret . . . No, no, I tell you, I am not that daemon swineherd in the twilit grotto! It was not

Edward Norrys‘ fat face on that flabby, fungous thing! Who says I am a de la Poer? He lived,

but my boy died! . . . Shall a Norrys hold the lands of a de la Poer? . . . It‘s voodoo, I tell you .

. . that spotted snake . . . Curse you, Thornton, I‘ll teach you to faint at what my family do! . . .

‘Sblood, thou stinkard, I‘ll learn ye how to gust . . . wolde ye swynke me thilke wys? . . .

Magna Mater! Magna Mater! . . . Atys . . . Dia ad aghaidh ’s ad aodann . . . agus bas dunach

ort! Dhonas ’s dholas ort, agus leat-sa! . . . Ungl . . . ungl . . . rrrlh . . . chchch . . .

That is what they say I said when they found me in the blackness after three hours; found me

crouching in the blackness over the plump, half-eaten body of Capt. Norrys, with my own cat

leaping and tearing at my throat. Now they have blown up Exham Priory, taken my Nigger-

Man away from me, and shut me into this barred room at Hanwell with fearful whispers about

my heredity and experiences. Thornton is in the next room, but they prevent me from talking

to him. They are trying, too, to suppress most of the facts concerning the priory. When I speak

of poor Norrys they accuse me of a hideous thing, but they must know that I did not do it.

They must know it was the rats; the slithering, scurrying rats whose scampering will never let

me sleep; the daemon rats that race behind the padding in this room and beckon me down to

greater horrors than I have ever known; the rats they can never hear; the rats, the rats in the

walls.

Return to Table of Contents

The Unnamable

(1923)

We were sitting on a dilapidated seventeenth-century tomb in the late afternoon of an autumn

day at the old burying-ground in Arkham, and speculating about the unnamable. Looking

toward the giant willow in the centre of the cemetery, whose trunk has nearly engulfed an

ancient, illegible slab, I had made a fantastic remark about the spectral and unmentionable

nourishment which the colossal roots must be sucking in from that hoary, charnel earth; when

my friend chided me for such nonsense and told me that since no interments had occurred

there for over a century, nothing could possibly exist to nourish the tree in other than an

ordinary manner. Besides, he added, my constant talk about ―unnamable‖ and

―unmentionable‖ things was a very puerile device, quite in keeping with my lowly standing as

an author. I was too fond of ending my stories with sights or sounds which paralysed my

heroes‘ faculties and left them without courage, words, or associations to tell what they had

experienced. We know things, he said, only through our five senses or our religious intuitions;

wherefore it is quite impossible to refer to any object or spectacle which cannot be clearly

depicted by the solid definitions of fact or the correct doctrines of theology—preferably those

of the Congregationalists, with whatever modifications tradition and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

may supply.

With this friend, Joel Manton, I had often languidly disputed. He was principal of the East High

School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England‘s self-satisfied deafness to the

delicate overtones of life. It was his view that only our normal, objective experiences possess

any aesthetic significance, and that it is the province of the artist not so much to rouse strong

emotion by action, ecstasy, and astonishment, as to maintain a placid interest and

appreciation by accurate, detailed transcripts of every-day affairs. Especially did he object to

my preoccupation with the mystical and the unexplained; for although believing in the

supernatural much more fully than I, he would not admit that it is sufficiently commonplace for

literary treatment. That a mind can find its greatest pleasure in escapes from the daily

treadmill, and in original and dramatic recombinations of images usually thrown by habit and

fatigue into the hackneyed patterns of actual existence, was something virtually incredible to

his clear, practical, and logical intellect. With him all things and feelings had fixed dimensions,

properties, causes, and effects; and although he vaguely knew that the mind sometimes holds

visions and sensations of far less geometrical, classifiable, and workable nature, he believed

himself justified in drawing an arbitrary line and ruling out of court all that cannot be

experienced and understood by the average citizen. Besides, he was almost sure that nothing

can be really ―unnamable‖. It didn‘t sound sensible to him.

Though I well realised the futility of imaginative and metaphysical arguments against the

complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller, something in the scene of this afternoon colloquy

moved me to more than usual contentiousness. The crumbling slate slabs, the patriarchal

trees, and the centuried gambrel roofs of the witch-haunted old town that stretched around, all

combined to rouse my spirit in defence of my work; and I was soon carrying my thrusts into

the enemy‘s own country. It was not, indeed, difficult to begin a counter-attack, for I knew that

Joel Manton actually half clung to many old-wives‘ superstitions which sophisticated people

had long outgrown; beliefs in the appearance of dying persons at distant places, and in the

impressions left by old faces on the windows through which they had gazed all their lives. To

credit these whisperings of rural grandmothers, I now insisted, argued a faith in the existence

of spectral substances on the earth apart from and subsequent to their material counterparts.

It argued a capability of believing in phenomena beyond all normal notions; for if a dead man

can transmit his visible or tangible image half across the world, or down the stretch of the

centuries, how can it be absurd to suppose that deserted houses are full of queer sentient

things, or that old graveyards teem with the terrible, unbodied intelligence of generations?

And since spirit, in order to cause all the manifestations attributed to it, cannot be limited by

any of the laws of matter; why is it extravagant to imagine psychically living dead things in

shapes—or absences of shapes—which must for human spectators be utterly and appallingly

―unnamable‖? ―Common sense‖ in reflecting on these subjects, I assured my friend with some

warmth, is merely a stupid absence of imagination and mental flexibility.

Twilight had now approached, but neither of us felt any wish to cease speaking. Manton

seemed unimpressed by my arguments, and eager to refute them, having that confidence in

his own opinions which had doubtless caused his success as a teacher; whilst I was too sure

of my ground to fear defeat. The dusk fell, and lights faintly gleamed in some of the distant

windows, but we did not move. Our seat on the tomb was very comfortable, and I knew that

my prosaic friend would not mind the cavernous rift in the ancient, root-disturbed brickwork

close behind us, or the utter blackness of the spot brought by the intervention of a tottering,

deserted seventeenth-century house between us and the nearest lighted road. There in the

dark, upon that riven tomb by the deserted house, we talked on about the ―unnamable‖, and

after my friend had finished his scoffing I told him of the awful evidence behind the story at

which he had scoffed the most.

My tale had been called ―The Attic Window‖, and appeared in the January, 1922, issue of

Whispers. In a good many places, especially the South and the Pacific coast, they took the

magazines off the stands at the complaints of silly milksops; but New England didn‘t get the

thrill and merely shrugged its shoulders at my extravagance. The thing, it was averred, was

biologically impossible to start with; merely another of those crazy country mutterings which

Cotton Mather had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana,

and so poorly authenticated that even he had not ventured to name the locality where the

horror occurred. And as to the way I amplified the bare jotting of the old mystic—that was

quite impossible, and characteristic of a flighty and notional scribbler! Mather had indeed told

of the thing as being born, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow

up, look into people‘s windows at night, and be hidden in the attic of a house, in flesh and in

spirit, till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn‘t describe what it was that

turned his hair grey. All this was flagrant trashiness, and my friend Manton was not slow to

insist on that fact. Then I told him what I had found in an old diary kept between 1706 and

1723, unearthed among family papers not a mile from where we were sitting; that, and the

certain reality of the scars on my ancestor‘s chest and back which the diary described. I told

him, too, of the fears of others in that region, and how they were whispered down for

generations; and how no mythical madness came to the boy who in 1793 entered an

abandoned house to examine certain traces suspected to be there.

It had been an eldritch thing—no wonder sensitive students shudder at the Puritan age in

Massachusetts. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet such a

ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses. The witchcraft

terror is a horrible ray of light on what was stewing in men‘s crushed brains, but even that is a

trifle. There was no beauty; no freedom—we can see that from the architectural and

household remains, and the poisonous sermons of the cramped divines. And inside that

rusted iron strait-jacket lurked gibbering hideousness, perversion, and diabolism. Here, truly,

was the apotheosis of the unnamable.

Cotton Mather, in that daemoniac sixth book which no one should read after dark, minced no

words as he flung forth his anathema. Stern as a Jewish prophet, and laconically unamazed

as none since his day could be, he told of the beast that had brought forth what was more

than beast but less than man—the thing with the blemished eye—and of the screaming

drunken wretch that they hanged for having such an eye. This much he baldly told, yet

without a hint of what came after. Perhaps he did not know, or perhaps he knew and did not

dare to tell. Others knew, but did not dare to tell—there is no public hint of why they

whispered about the lock on the door to the attic stairs in the house of a childless, broken,

embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab by an avoided grave, although one may

trace enough evasive legends to curdle the thinnest blood.

It is all in that ancestral diary I found; all the hushed innuendoes and furtive tales of things

with a blemished eye seen at windows in the night or in deserted meadows near the woods.

Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on

his chest and of ape-like claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled

dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. Once a post-

rider said he saw an old man chasing and calling to a frightful loping, nameless thing on

Meadow Hill in the thinly moonlit hours before dawn, and many believed him. Certainly, there

was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken old man was buried in the crypt

behind his own house in sight of the blank slate slab. They never unlocked that attic door, but

left the whole house as it was, dreaded and deserted. When noises came from it, they

whispered and shivered; and hoped that the lock on that attic door was strong. Then they

stopped hoping when the horror occurred at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in one

piece. With the years the legends take on a spectral character—I suppose the thing, if it was

a living thing, must have died. The memory had lingered hideously—all the more hideous

because it was so secret.

During this narration my friend Manton had become very silent, and I saw that my words had

impressed him. He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who

went mad in 1793, and who had presumably been the hero of my fiction. I told him why the

boy had gone to that shunned, deserted house, and remarked that he ought to be interested,

since he believed that windows retained latent images of those who had sat at them. The boy

had gone to look at the windows of that horrible attic, because of tales of things seen behind

them, and had come back screaming maniacally.

Manton remained thoughtful as I said this, but gradually reverted to his analytical mood. He

granted for the sake of argument that some unnatural monster had really existed, but

reminded me that even the most morbid perversion of Nature need not be unnamable or

scientifically indescribable. I admired his clearness and persistence, and added some further

revelations I had collected among the old people. Those later spectral legends, I made plain,

related to monstrous apparitions more frightful than anything organic could be; apparitions of

gigantic bestial forms sometimes visible and sometimes only tangible, which floated about on

moonless nights and haunted the old house, the crypt behind it, and the grave where a

sapling had sprouted beside an illegible slab. Whether or not such apparitions had ever gored

or smothered people to death, as told in uncorroborated traditions, they had produced a

strong and consistent impression; and were yet darkly feared by very aged natives, though

largely forgotten by the last two generations—perhaps dying for lack of being thought about.

Moreover, so far as aesthetic theory was involved, if the psychic emanations of human

creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent representation could express or portray so

gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the spectre of a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a

morbid blasphemy against Nature? Moulded by the dead brain of a hybrid nightmare, would

not such a vaporous terror constitute in all loathsome truth the exquisitely, the shriekingly

unnamable?

The hour must now have grown very late. A singularly noiseless bat brushed by me, and I

believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm.

Presently he spoke.

―But is that house with the attic window still standing and deserted?‖

―Yes,‖ I answered. ―I have seen it.‖

―And did you find anything there—in the attic or anywhere else?‖

―There were some bones up under the eaves. They may have been what that boy saw—if he

was sensitive he wouldn‘t have needed anything in the window-glass to unhinge him. If they

all came from the same object it must have been an hysterical, delirious monstrosity. It would

have been blasphemous to leave such bones in the world, so I went back with a sack and

took them to the tomb behind the house. There was an opening where I could dump them in.

Don‘t think I was a fool—you ought to have seen that skull. It had four-inch horns, but a face

and jaw something like yours and mine.‖

At last I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, who had moved very near. But his

curiosity was undeterred.

―And what about the window-panes?‖

―They were all gone. One window had lost its entire frame, and in the other there was not a

trace of glass in the little diamond apertures. They were that kind—the old lattice windows

that went out of use before 1700. I don‘t believe they‘ve had any glass for an hundred years

or more—maybe the boy broke ‘em if he got that far; the legend doesn‘t say.‖

Manton was reflecting again.

―I‘d like to see that house, Carter. Where is it? Glass or no glass, I must explore it a little. And

the tomb where you put those bones, and the other grave without an inscription—the whole

thing must be a bit terrible.‖

―You did see it—until it got dark.‖

My friend was more wrought upon than I had suspected, for at this touch of harmless

theatricalism he started neurotically away from me and actually cried out with a sort of gulping

gasp which released a strain of previous repression. It was an odd cry, and all the more

terrible because it was answered. For as it was still echoing, I heard a creaking sound through

the pitchy blackness, and knew that a lattice window was opening in that accursed old house

beside us. And because all the other frames were long since fallen, I knew that it was the

grisly glassless frame of that daemoniac attic window.

Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed

by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. In

another instant I was knocked from my gruesome bench by the devilish threshing of some

unseen entity of titanic size but undetermined nature; knocked sprawling on the root-clutched

mould of that abhorrent graveyard, while from the tomb came such a stifled uproar of gasping

and whirring that my fancy peopled the rayless gloom with Miltonic legions of the misshapen

damned. There was a vortex of withering, ice-cold wind, and then the rattle of loose bricks

and plaster; but I had mercifully fainted before I could learn what it meant.

Manton, though smaller than I, is more resilient; for we opened our eyes at almost the same

instant, despite his greater injuries. Our couches were side by side, and we knew in a few

seconds that we were in St. Mary‘s Hospital. Attendants were grouped about in tense

curiosity, eager to aid our memory by telling us how we came there, and we soon heard of the

farmer who had found us at noon in a lonely field beyond Meadow Hill, a mile from the old

burying-ground, on a spot where an ancient slaughterhouse is reputed to have stood. Manton

had two malignant wounds in the chest, and some less severe cuts or gougings in the back. I

was not so seriously hurt, but was covered with welts and contusions of the most bewildering

character, including the print of a split hoof. It was plain that Manton knew more than I, but he

told nothing to the puzzled and interested physicians till he had learned what our injuries

were. Then he said we were the victims of a vicious bull—though the animal was a difficult

thing to place and account for.

After the doctors and nurses had left, I whispered an awestruck question:

―Good God, Manton, but what was it? Those scars—was it like that?”

And I was too dazed to exult when he whispered back a thing I had half expected—

―No—it wasn’t that way at all. It was everywhere—a gelatin—a slime—yet it had shapes, a

thousand shapes of horror beyond all memory. There were eyes—and a blemish. It was the

pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination. Carter, it was the unnamable!”

Return to Table of Contents

The Festival

(1923)

―Efficiunt Daemones, ut quae non sunt, sic tamen

quasi sint, conspicienda hominibus exhibeant.‖

—Lactantius.

I was far from home, and the spell of the eastern sea was upon me. In the twilight I heard it

pounding on the rocks, and I knew it lay just over the hill where the twisting willows writhed

against the clearing sky and the first stars of evening. And because my fathers had called me

to the old town beyond, I pushed on through the shallow, new-fallen snow along the road that

soared lonely up to where Aldebaran twinkled among the trees; on toward the very ancient

town I had never seen but often dreamed of.

It was the Yuletide, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than

Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind. It was the Yuletide, and I had

come at last to the ancient sea town where my people had dwelt and kept festival in the elder

time when festival was forbidden; where also they had commanded their sons to keep festival

once every century, that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. Mine were an

old people, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. And

they were strange, because they had come as dark furtive folk from opiate southern gardens

of orchids, and spoken another tongue before they learnt the tongue of the blue-eyed fishers.

And now they were scattered, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could

understand. I was the only one who came back that night to the old fishing town as legend

bade, for only the poor and the lonely remember.

Then beyond the hill‘s crest I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the gloaming; snowy

Kingsport with its ancient vanes and steeples, ridgepoles and chimney-pots, wharves and

small bridges, willow-trees and graveyards; endless labyrinths of steep, narrow, crooked

streets, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of

colonial houses piled and scattered at all angles and levels like a child‘s disordered blocks;

antiquity hovering on grey wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights

and small-paned windows one by one gleaming out in the cold dusk to join Orion and the

archaic stars. And against the rotting wharves the sea pounded; the secretive, immemorial

sea out of which the people had come in the elder time.

Beside the road at its crest a still higher summit rose, bleak and windswept, and I saw that it

was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the snow like the

decayed fingernails of a gigantic corpse. The printless road was very lonely, and sometimes I

thought I heard a distant horrible creaking as of a gibbet in the wind. They had hanged four

kinsmen of mine for witchcraft in 1692, but I did not know just where.

As the road wound down the seaward slope I listened for the merry sounds of a village at

evening, but did not hear them. Then I thought of the season, and felt that these old Puritan

folk might well have Christmas customs strange to me, and full of silent hearthside prayer. So

after that I did not listen for merriment or look for wayfarers, but kept on down past the hushed

lighted farmhouses and shadowy stone walls to where the signs of ancient shops and sea-

taverns creaked in the salt breeze, and the grotesque knockers of pillared doorways glistened

along deserted, unpaved lanes in the light of little, curtained windows.

I had seen maps of the town, and knew where to find the home of my people. It was told that I

should be known and welcomed, for village legend lives long; so I hastened through Back

Street to Circle Court, and across the fresh snow on the one full flagstone pavement in the

town, to where Green Lane leads off behind the Market house. The old maps still held good,

and I had no trouble; though at Arkham they must have lied when they said the trolleys ran to

this place, since I saw not a wire overhead. Snow would have hid the rails in any case. I was

glad I had chosen to walk, for the white village had seemed very beautiful from the hill; and

now I was eager to knock at the door of my people, the seventh house on the left in Green

Lane, with an ancient peaked roof and jutting second story, all built before 1650.

There were lights inside the house when I came upon it, and I saw from the diamond window-

panes that it must have been kept very close to its antique state. The upper part overhung the

narrow grass-grown street and nearly met the overhanging part of the house opposite, so that

I was almost in a tunnel, with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow. There was no

sidewalk, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron

railings. It was an odd scene, and because I was strange to New England I had never known

its like before. Though it pleased me, I would have relished it better if there had been

footprints in the snow, and people in the streets, and a few windows without drawn curtains.

When I sounded the archaic iron knocker I was half afraid. Some fear had been gathering in

me, perhaps because of the strangeness of my heritage, and the bleakness of the evening,

and the queerness of the silence in that aged town of curious customs. And when my knock

was answered I was fully afraid, because I had not heard any footsteps before the door

creaked open. But I was not afraid long, for the gowned, slippered old man in the doorway

had a bland face that reassured me; and though he made signs that he was dumb, he wrote a

quaint and ancient welcome with the stylus and wax tablet he carried.

He beckoned me into a low, candle-lit room with massive exposed rafters and dark, stiff,

sparse furniture of the seventeenth century. The past was vivid there, for not an attribute was

missing. There was a cavernous fireplace and a spinning-wheel at which a bent old woman in

loose wrapper and deep poke-bonnet sat back toward me, silently spinning despite the festive

season. An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place, and I marvelled that no fire should

be blazing. The high-backed settle faced the row of curtained windows at the left, and seemed

to be occupied, though I was not sure. I did not like everything about what I saw, and felt

again the fear I had had. This fear grew stronger from what had before lessened it, for the

more I looked at the old man‘s bland face the more its very blandness terrified me. The eyes

never moved, and the skin was too like wax. Finally I was sure it was not a face at all, but a

fiendishly cunning mask. But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the tablet

and told me I must wait a while before I could be led to the place of festival.

Pointing to a chair, table, and pile of books, the old man now left the room; and when I sat

down to read I saw that the books were hoary and mouldy, and that they included old

Morryster‘s wild Marvells of Science, the terrible Saducismus Triumphatus of Joseph Glanvill,

published in 1681, the shocking Daemonolatreia of Remigius, printed in 1595 at Lyons, and

worst of all, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, in Olaus

Wormius‘ forbidden Latin translation; a book which I had never seen, but of which I had heard

monstrous things whispered. No one spoke to me, but I could hear the creaking of signs in

the wind outside, and the whir of the wheel as the bonneted old woman continued her silent

spinning, spinning. I thought the room and the books and the people very morbid and

disquieting, but because an old tradition of my fathers had summoned me to strange

feastings, I resolved to expect queer things. So I tried to read, and soon became tremblingly

absorbed by something I found in that accursed Necronomicon; a thought and a legend too

hideous for sanity or consciousness. But I disliked it when I fancied I heard the closing of one

of the windows that the settle faced, as if it had been stealthily opened. It had seemed to

follow a whirring that was not of the old woman‘s spinning-wheel. This was not much, though,

for the old woman was spinning very hard, and the aged clock had been striking. After that I

lost the feeling that there were persons on the settle, and was reading intently and

shudderingly when the old man came back booted and dressed in a loose antique costume,

and sat down on that very bench, so that I could not see him. It was certainly nervous waiting,

and the blasphemous book in my hands made it doubly so. When eleven struck, however, the

old man stood up, glided to a massive carved chest in a corner, and got two hooded cloaks;

one of which he donned, and the other of which he draped round the old woman, who was

ceasing her monotonous spinning. Then they both started for the outer door; the woman

lamely creeping, and the old man, after picking up the very book I had been reading,

beckoning me as he drew his hood over that unmoving face or mask.

We went out into the moonless and tortuous network of that incredibly ancient town; went out

as the lights in the curtained windows disappeared one by one, and the Dog Star leered at the

throng of cowled, cloaked figures that poured silently from every doorway and formed

monstrous processions up this street and that, past the creaking signs and antediluvian

gables, the thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where

decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together, gliding across open courts and

churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations.

Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed

preternaturally soft, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed abnormally pulpy; but

seeing never a face and hearing never a word. Up, up, up the eerie columns slithered, and I

saw that all the travellers were converging as they flowed near a sort of focus of crazy alleys

at the top of a high hill in the centre of the town, where perched a great white church. I had

seen it from the road‘s crest when I looked at Kingsport in the new dusk, and it had made me

shiver because Aldebaran had seemed to balance itself a moment on the ghostly spire.

There was an open space around the church; partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and

partly a half-paved square swept nearly bare of snow by the wind, and lined with

unwholesomely archaic houses having peaked roofs and overhanging gables. Death-fires

danced over the tombs, revealing gruesome vistas, though queerly failing to cast any

shadows. Past the churchyard, where there were no houses, I could see over the hill‘s

summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the harbour, though the town was invisible in the

dark. Only once in a while a lanthorn bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to

overtake the throng that was now slipping speechlessly into the church. I waited till the crowd

had oozed into the black doorway, and till all the stragglers had followed. The old man was

pulling at my sleeve, but I was determined to be the last. Then I finally went, the sinister man

and the old spinning woman before me. Crossing the threshold into that swarming temple of

unknown darkness, I turned once to look at the outside world as the churchyard

phosphorescence cast a sickly glow on the hill-top pavement. And as I did so I shuddered.

For though the wind had not left much snow, a few patches did remain on the path near the

door; and in that fleeting backward look it seemed to my troubled eyes that they bore no mark

of passing feet, not even mine.

The church was scarce lighted by all the lanthorns that had entered it, for most of the throng

had already vanished. They had streamed up the aisle between the high white pews to the

trap-door of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the pulpit, and were now

squirming noiselessly in. I followed dumbly down the footworn steps and into the dank,

suffocating crypt. The tail of that sinuous line of night-marchers seemed very horrible, and as I

saw them wriggling into a venerable tomb they seemed more horrible still. Then I noticed that

the tomb‘s floor had an aperture down which the throng was sliding, and in a moment we

were all descending an ominous staircase of rough-hewn stone; a narrow spiral staircase

damp and peculiarly odorous, that wound endlessly down into the bowels of the hill past

monotonous walls of dripping stone blocks and crumbling mortar. It was a silent, shocking

descent, and I observed after a horrible interval that the walls and steps were changing in

nature, as if chiselled out of the solid rock. What mainly troubled me was that the myriad

footfalls made no sound and set up no echoes. After more aeons of descent I saw some side

passages or burrows leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this shaft of nighted

mystery. Soon they became excessively numerous, like impious catacombs of nameless

menace; and their pungent odour of decay grew quite unbearable. I knew we must have

passed down through the mountain and beneath the earth of Kingsport itself, and I shivered

that a town should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil.

Then I saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, and heard the insidious lapping of sunless

waters. Again I shivered, for I did not like the things that the night had brought, and wished

bitterly that no forefather had summoned me to this primal rite. As the steps and the passage

grew broader, I heard another sound, the thin, whining mockery of a feeble flute; and

suddenly there spread out before me the boundless vista of an inner world—a vast fungous

shore litten by a belching column of sick greenish flame and washed by a wide oily river that

flowed from abysses frightful and unsuspected to join the blackest gulfs of immemorial ocean.

Fainting and gasping, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire, and

slimy water, and saw the cloaked throngs forming a semicircle around the blazing pillar. It was

the Yule-rite, older than man and fated to survive him; the primal rite of the solstice and of

spring‘s promise beyond the snows; the rite of fire and evergreen, light and music. And in the

Stygian grotto I saw them do the rite, and adore the sick pillar of flame, and throw into the

water handfuls gouged out of the viscous vegetation which glittered green in the chlorotic

glare. I saw this, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the light, piping

noisomely on a flute; and as the thing piped I thought I heard noxious muffled flutterings in the

foetid darkness where I could not see. But what frightened me most was that flaming column;

spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy

flame should, and coating the nitrous stone above with a nasty, venomous verdigris. For in all

that seething combustion no warmth lay, but only the clamminess of death and corruption.

The man who had brought me now squirmed to a point directly beside the hideous flame, and

made stiff ceremonial motions to the semicircle he faced. At certain stages of the ritual they

did grovelling obeisance, especially when he held above his head that abhorrent

Necronomicon he had taken with him; and I shared all the obeisances because I had been

summoned to this festival by the writings of my forefathers. Then the old man made a signal

to the half-seen flute-player in the darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone

to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so a horror unthinkable and

unexpected. At this horror I sank nearly to the lichened earth, transfixed with a dread not of

this nor any world, but only of the mad spaces between the stars.

Out of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of that cold flame, out of the

Tartarean leagues through which that oily river rolled uncanny, unheard, and unsuspected,

there flopped rhythmically a horde of tame, trained, hybrid winged things that no sound eye

could ever wholly grasp, or sound brain ever wholly remember. They were not altogether

crows, nor moles, nor buzzards, nor ants, nor vampire bats, nor decomposed human beings;

but something I cannot and must not recall. They flopped limply along, half with their webbed

feet and half with their membraneous wings; and as they reached the throng of celebrants the

cowled figures seized and mounted them, and rode off one by one along the reaches of that

unlighted river, into pits and galleries of panic where poison springs feed frightful and

undiscoverable cataracts.

The old spinning woman had gone with the throng, and the old man remained only because I

had refused when he motioned me to seize an animal and ride like the rest. I saw when I

staggered to my feet that the amorphous flute-player had rolled out of sight, but that two of

the beasts were patiently standing by. As I hung back, the old man produced his stylus and

tablet and wrote that he was the true deputy of my fathers who had founded the Yule worship

in this ancient place; that it had been decreed I should come back, and that the most secret

mysteries were yet to be performed. He wrote this in a very ancient hand, and when I still

hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a watch, both with my family arms, to

prove that he was what he said. But it was a hideous proof, because I knew from old papers

that that watch had been buried with my great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698.

Presently the old man drew back his hood and pointed to the family resemblance in his face,

but I only shuddered, because I was sure that the face was merely a devilish waxen mask.

The flopping animals were now scratching restlessly at the lichens, and I saw that the old man

was nearly as restless himself. When one of the things began to waddle and edge away, he

turned quickly to stop it; so that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from

what should have been his head. And then, because that nightmare‘s position barred me from

the stone staircase down which we had come, I flung myself into the oily underground river

that bubbled somewhere to the caves of the sea; flung myself into that putrescent juice of

earth‘s inner horrors before the madness of my screams could bring down upon me all the

charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal.

At the hospital they told me I had been found half frozen in Kingsport Harbour at dawn,

clinging to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me. They told me I had taken the wrong

fork of the hill road the night before, and fallen over the cliffs at Orange Point; a thing they

deduced from prints found in the snow. There was nothing I could say, because everything

was wrong. Everything was wrong, with the broad window shewing a sea of roofs in which

only about one in five was ancient, and the sound of trolleys and motors in the streets below.

They insisted that this was Kingsport, and I could not deny it. When I went delirious at hearing

that the hospital stood near the old churchyard on Central Hill, they sent me to St. Mary‘s

Hospital in Arkham, where I could have better care. I liked it there, for the doctors were broad-

minded, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the carefully sheltered copy of

Alhazred‘s objectionable Necronomicon from the library of Miskatonic University. They said

something about a ―psychosis‖, and agreed I had better get any harassing obsessions off my

mind.

So I read again that hideous chapter, and shuddered doubly because it was indeed not new

to me. I had seen it before, let footprints tell what they might; and where it was I had seen it

were best forgotten. There was no one—in waking hours—who could remind me of it; but my

dreams are filled with terror, because of phrases I dare not quote. I dare quote only one

paragraph, put into such English as I can make from the awkward Low Latin.

―The nethermost caverns,‖ wrote the mad Arab, ―are not for the fathoming of eyes

that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead

thoughts live new and oddly bodied, and evil the mind that is held by no head.

The Shunned House

(1924)

From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. Sometimes it enters directly into the

composition of the events, while sometimes it relates only to their fortuitous position among

persons and places. The latter sort is splendidly exemplified by a case in the ancient city of

Providence, where in the late forties Edgar Allan Poe used to sojourn often during his

unsuccessful wooing of the gifted poetess, Mrs. Whitman. Poe generally stopped at the

Mansion House in Benefit Street—the renamed Golden Ball Inn whose roof has sheltered

Washington, Jefferson, and Lafayette—and his favourite walk led northward along the same

street to Mrs. Whitman‘s home and the neighbouring hillside churchyard of St. John‘s, whose

hidden expanse of eighteenth-century gravestones had for him a peculiar fascination.

Now the irony is this. In this walk, so many times repeated, the world‘s greatest master of the

terrible and the bizarre was obliged to pass a particular house on the eastern side of the

street; a dingy, antiquated structure perched on the abruptly rising side-hill, with a great

unkempt yard dating from a time when the region was partly open country. It does not appear

that he ever wrote or spoke of it, nor is there any evidence that he even noticed it. And yet

that house, to the two persons in possession of certain information, equals or outranks in

horror the wildest phantasy of the genius who so often passed it unknowingly, and stands

starkly leering as a symbol of all that is unutterably hideous.

The house was—and for that matter still is—of a kind to attract the attention of the curious.

Originally a farm or semi-farm building, it followed the average New England colonial lines of

the middle eighteenth century—the prosperous peaked-roof sort, with two stories and

dormerless attic, and with the Georgian doorway and interior panelling dictated by the

progress of taste at that time. It faced south, with one gable end buried to the lower windows

in the eastward rising hill, and the other exposed to the foundations toward the street. Its

construction, over a century and a half ago, had followed the grading and straightening of the

road in that especial vicinity; for Benefit Street—at first called Back Street—was laid out as a

lane winding amongst the graveyards of the first settlers, and straightened only when the

removal of the bodies to the North Burial Ground made it decently possible to cut through the

old family plots.

At the start, the western wall had lain some twenty feet up a precipitous lawn from the

roadway; but a widening of the street at about the time of the Revolution sheared off most of

the intervening space, exposing the foundations so that a brick basement wall had to be

made, giving the deep cellar a street frontage with door and two windows above ground,

close to the new line of public travel. When the sidewalk was laid out a century ago the last of

the intervening space was removed; and Poe in his walks must have seen only a sheer

ascent of dull grey brick flush with the sidewalk and surmounted at a height of ten feet by the

antique shingled bulk of the house proper.

The farm-like grounds extended back very deeply up the hill, almost to Wheaton Street. The

space south of the house, abutting on Benefit Street, was of course greatly above the existing

sidewalk level, forming a terrace bounded by a high bank wall of damp, mossy stone pierced

by a steep flight of narrow steps which led inward between canyon-like surfaces to the upper

region of mangy lawn, rheumy brick walls, and neglected gardens whose dismantled cement

urns, rusted kettles fallen from tripods of knotty sticks, and similar paraphernalia set off the

weather-beaten front door with its broken fanlight, rotting Ionic pilasters, and wormy triangular

pediment.

What I heard in my youth about the shunned house was merely that people died there in

alarmingly great numbers. That, I was told, was why the original owners had moved out some

twenty years after building the place. It was plainly unhealthy, perhaps because of the

dampness and fungous growth in the cellar, the general sickish smell, the draughts of the

hallways, or the quality of the well and pump water. These things were bad enough, and these

were all that gained belief among the persons whom I knew. Only the notebooks of my

antiquarian uncle, Dr. Elihu Whipple, revealed to me at length the darker, vaguer surmises

which formed an undercurrent of folklore among old-time servants and humble folk; surmises

which never travelled far, and which were largely forgotten when Providence grew to be a

metropolis with a shifting modern population.

The general fact is, that the house was never regarded by the solid part of the community as

in any real sense ―haunted‖. There were no widespread tales of rattling chains, cold currents

of air, extinguished lights, or faces at the window. Extremists sometimes said the house was

―unlucky‖, but that is as far as even they went. What was really beyond dispute is that a

frightful proportion of persons died there; or more accurately, had died there, since after some

peculiar happenings over sixty years ago the building had become deserted through the

sheer impossibility of renting it. These persons were not all cut off suddenly by any one

cause; rather did it seem that their vitality was insidiously sapped, so that each one died the

sooner from whatever tendency to weakness he may have naturally had. And those who did

not die displayed in varying degree a type of anaemia or consumption, and sometimes a

decline of the mental faculties, which spoke ill for the salubriousness of the building.

Neighbouring houses, it must be added, seemed entirely free from the noxious quality.

This much I knew before my insistent questioning led my uncle to shew me the notes which

finally embarked us both on our hideous investigation. In my childhood the shunned house

was vacant, with barren, gnarled, and terrible old trees, long, queerly pale grass, and

nightmarishly misshapen weeds in the high terraced yard where birds never lingered. We

boys used to overrun the place, and I can still recall my youthful terror not only at the morbid

strangeness of this sinister vegetation, but at the eldritch atmosphere and odour of the

dilapidated house, whose unlocked front door was often entered in quest of shudders. The

small-paned windows were largely broken, and a nameless air of desolation hung round the

precarious panelling, shaky interior shutters, peeling wall-paper, falling plaster, rickety

staircases, and such fragments of battered furniture as still remained. The dust and cobwebs

added their touch of the fearful; and brave indeed was the boy who would voluntarily ascend

the ladder to the attic, a vast raftered length lighted only by small blinking windows in the

gable ends, and filled with a massed wreckage of chests, chairs, and spinning-wheels which

infinite years of deposit had shrouded and festooned into monstrous and hellish shapes.

But after all, the attic was not the most terrible part of the house. It was the dank, humid cellar

which somehow exerted the strongest repulsion on us, even though it was wholly above

ground on the street side, with only a thin door and window-pierced brick wall to separate it

from the busy sidewalk. We scarcely knew whether to haunt it in spectral fascination, or to

shun it for the sake of our souls and our sanity. For one thing, the bad odour of the house was

strongest there; and for another thing, we did not like the white fungous growths which

occasionally sprang up in rainy summer weather from the hard earth floor. Those fungi,

grotesquely like the vegetation in the yard outside, were truly horrible in their outlines;

detestable parodies of toadstools and Indian pipes, whose like we had never seen in any

other situation. They rotted quickly, and at one stage became slightly phosphorescent; so that

nocturnal passers-by sometimes spoke of witch-fires glowing behind the broken panes of the

foetor-spreading windows.

We never—even in our wildest Hallowe‘en moods—visited this cellar by night, but in some of

our daytime visits could detect the phosphorescence, especially when the day was dark and

wet. There was also a subtler thing we often thought we detected—a very strange thing which

was, however, merely suggestive at most. I refer to a sort of cloudy whitish pattern on the dirt

floor—a vague, shifting deposit of mould or nitre which we sometimes thought we could trace

amidst the sparse fungous growths near the huge fireplace of the basement kitchen. Once in

a while it struck us that this patch bore an uncanny resemblance to a doubled-up human

figure, though generally no such kinship existed, and often there was no whitish deposit

whatever. On a certain rainy afternoon when this illusion seemed phenomenally strong, and

when, in addition, I had fancied I glimpsed a kind of thin, yellowish, shimmering exhalation

rising from the nitrous pattern toward the yawning fireplace, I spoke to my uncle about the

matter. He smiled at this odd conceit, but it seemed that his smile was tinged with

reminiscence. Later I heard that a similar notion entered into some of the wild ancient tales of

the common folk—a notion likewise alluding to ghoulish, wolfish shapes taken by smoke from

the great chimney, and queer contours assumed by certain of the sinuous tree-roots that

thrust their way into the cellar through the loose foundation-stones.

II.

Not till my adult years did my uncle set before me the notes and data which he had collected

concerning the shunned house. Dr. Whipple was a sane, conservative physician of the old

school, and for all his interest in the place was not eager to encourage young thoughts toward

the abnormal. His own view, postulating simply a building and location of markedly unsanitary

qualities, had nothing to do with abnormality; but he realised that the very picturesqueness

which aroused his own interest would in a boy‘s fanciful mind take on all manner of gruesome

imaginative associations.

The doctor was a bachelor; a white-haired, clean-shaven, old-fashioned gentleman, and a

local historian of note, who had often broken a lance with such controversial guardians of

tradition as Sidney S. Rider and Thomas W. Bicknell. He lived with one manservant in a

Georgian homestead with knocker and iron-railed steps, balanced eerily on a steep ascent of

North Court Street beside the ancient brick court and colony house where his grandfather—a

cousin of that celebrated privateersman, Capt. Whipple, who burnt His Majesty‘s armed

schooner Gaspee in 1772—had voted in the legislature on May 4, 1776, for the independence

of the Rhode Island Colony. Around him in the damp, low-ceiled library with the musty white

panelling, heavy carved overmantel, and small-paned, vine-shaded windows, were the relics

and records of his ancient family, among which were many dubious allusions to the shunned

house in Benefit Street. That pest spot lies not far distant—for Benefit runs ledgewise just

above the court-house along the precipitous hill up which the first settlement climbed.

When, in the end, my insistent pestering and maturing years evoked from my uncle the

hoarded lore I sought, there lay before me a strange enough chronicle. Long-winded,

statistical, and drearily genealogical as some of the matter was, there ran through it a

continuous thread of brooding, tenacious horror and preternatural malevolence which

impressed me even more than it had impressed the good doctor. Separate events fitted

together uncannily, and seemingly irrelevant details held mines of hideous possibilities. A new

and burning curiosity grew in me, compared to which my boyish curiosity was feeble and

inchoate. The first revelation led to an exhaustive research, and finally to that shuddering

quest which proved so disastrous to myself and mine. For at last my uncle insisted on joining

the search I had commenced, and after a certain night in that house he did not come away

with me. I am lonely without that gentle soul whose long years were filled only with honour,

virtue, good taste, benevolence, and learning. I have reared a marble urn to his memory in St.

John‘s churchyard—the place that Poe loved—the hidden grove of giant willows on the hill,

where tombs and headstones huddle quietly between the hoary bulk of the church and the

houses and bank walls of Benefit Street.

The history of the house, opening amidst a maze of dates, revealed no trace of the sinister

either about its construction or about the prosperous and honourable family who built it. Yet

from the first a taint of calamity, soon increased to boding significance, was apparent. My

uncle‘s carefully compiled record began with the building of the structure in 1763, and

followed the theme with an unusual amount of detail. The shunned house, it seems, was first

inhabited by William Harris and his wife Rhoby Dexter, with their children, Elkanah, born in

1755, Abigail, born in 1757, William, Jr., born in 1759, and Ruth, born in 1761. Harris was a

substantial merchant and seaman in the West India trade, connected with the firm of Obadiah

Brown and his nephews. After Brown‘s death in 1761, the new firm of Nicholas Brown & Co.

made him master of the brig Prudence, Providence-built, of 120 tons, thus enabling him to

erect the new homestead he had desired ever since his marriage.

The site he had chosen—a recently straightened part of the new and fashionable Back Street,

which ran along the side of the hill above crowded Cheapside—was all that could be wished,

and the building did justice to the location. It was the best that moderate means could afford,

and Harris hastened to move in before the birth of a fifth child which the family expected. That

child, a boy, came in December; but was still-born. Nor was any child to be born alive in that

house for a century and a half.

The next April sickness occurred among the children, and Abigail and Ruth died before the

month was over. Dr. Job Ives diagnosed the trouble as some infantile fever, though others

declared it was more of a mere wasting-away or decline. It seemed, in any event, to be

contagious; for Hannah Bowen, one of the two servants, died of it in the following June. Eli

Liddeason, the other servant, constantly complained of weakness; and would have returned

to his father‘s farm in Rehoboth but for a sudden attachment for Mehitabel Pierce, who was

hired to succeed Hannah. He died the next year—a sad year indeed, since it marked the

death of William Harris himself, enfeebled as he was by the climate of Martinique, where his

occupation had kept him for considerable periods during the preceding decade.

The widowed Rhoby Harris never recovered from the shock of her husband‘s death, and the

passing of her first-born Elkanah two years later was the final blow to her reason. In 1768 she

fell victim to a mild form of insanity, and was thereafter confined to the upper part of the

house; her elder maiden sister, Mercy Dexter, having moved in to take charge of the family.

Mercy was a plain, raw-boned woman of great strength; but her health visibly declined from

the time of her advent. She was greatly devoted to her unfortunate sister, and had an especial

affection for her only surviving nephew William, who from a sturdy infant had become a sickly,

spindling lad. In this year the servant Mehitabel died, and the other servant, Preserved Smith,

left without coherent explanation—or at least, with only some wild tales and a complaint that

he disliked the smell of the place. For a time Mercy could secure no more help, since the

seven deaths and case of madness, all occurring within five years‘ space, had begun to set in

motion the body of fireside rumour which later became so bizarre. Ultimately, however, she

obtained new servants from out of town; Ann White, a morose woman from that part of North

Kingstown now set off as the township of Exeter, and a capable Boston man named Zenas

Low.

It was Ann White who first gave definite shape to the sinister idle talk. Mercy should have

known better than to hire anyone from the Nooseneck Hill country, for that remote bit of

backwoods was then, as now, a seat of the most uncomfortable superstitions. As lately as

1892 an Exeter community exhumed a dead body and ceremoniously burnt its heart in order

to prevent certain alleged visitations injurious to the public health and peace, and one may

imagine the point of view of the same section in 1768. Ann‘s tongue was perniciously active,

and within a few months Mercy discharged her, filling her place with a faithful and amiable

Amazon from Newport, Maria Robbins.

Meanwhile poor Rhoby Harris, in her madness, gave voice to dreams and imaginings of the

most hideous sort. At times her screams became insupportable, and for long periods she

would utter shrieking horrors which necessitated her son‘s temporary residence with his

cousin, Peleg Harris, in Presbyterian-Lane near the new college building. The boy would

seem to improve after these visits, and had Mercy been as wise as she was well-meaning,

she would have let him live permanently with Peleg. Just what Mrs. Harris cried out in her fits

of violence, tradition hesitates to say; or rather, presents such extravagant accounts that they

nullify themselves through sheer absurdity. Certainly it sounds absurd to hear that a woman

educated only in the rudiments of French often shouted for hours in a coarse and idiomatic

form of that language, or that the same person, alone and guarded, complained wildly of a

staring thing which bit and chewed at her. In 1772 the servant Zenas died, and when Mrs.

Harris heard of it she laughed with a shocking delight utterly foreign to her. The next year she

herself died, and was laid to rest in the North Burial Ground beside her husband.

Upon the outbreak of trouble with Great Britain in 1775, William Harris, despite his scant

sixteen years and feeble constitution, managed to enlist in the Army of Observation under

General Greene; and from that time on enjoyed a steady rise in health and prestige. In 1780,

as a Captain in Rhode Island forces in New Jersey under Colonel Angell, he met and married

Phebe Hetfield of Elizabethtown, whom he brought to Providence upon his honourable

discharge in the following year.

The young soldier‘s return was not a thing of unmitigated happiness. The house, it is true,

was still in good condition; and the street had been widened and changed in name from Back

Street to Benefit Street. But Mercy Dexter‘s once robust frame had undergone a sad and

curious decay, so that she was now a stooped and pathetic figure with hollow voice and

disconcerting pallor—qualities shared to a singular degree by the one remaining servant

Maria. In the autumn of 1782 Phebe Harris gave birth to a still-born daughter, and on the

fifteenth of the next May Mercy Dexter took leave of a useful, austere, and virtuous life.

William Harris, at last thoroughly convinced of the radically unhealthful nature of his abode,

now took steps toward quitting it and closing it forever. Securing temporary quarters for

himself and his wife at the newly opened Golden Ball Inn, he arranged for the building of a

new and finer house in Westminster Street, in the growing part of the town across the Great

Bridge. There, in 1785, his son Dutee was born; and there the family dwelt till the

encroachments of commerce drove them back across the river and over the hill to Angell

Street, in the newer East Side residence district, where the late Archer Harris built his

sumptuous but hideous French-roofed mansion in 1876. William and Phebe both succumbed

to the yellow fever epidemic of 1797, but Dutee was brought up by his cousin Rathbone

Harris, Peleg‘s son.

Rathbone was a practical man, and rented the Benefit Street house despite William‘s wish to

keep it vacant. He considered it an obligation to his ward to make the most of all the boy‘s

property, nor did he concern himself with the deaths and illnesses which caused so many

changes of tenants, or the steadily growing aversion with which the house was generally

regarded. It is likely that he felt only vexation when, in 1804, the town council ordered him to

fumigate the place with sulphur, tar, and gum camphor on account of the much-discussed

deaths of four persons, presumably caused by the then diminishing fever epidemic. They said

the place had a febrile smell.

Dutee himself thought little of the house, for he grew up to be a privateersman, and served

with distinction on the Vigilant under Capt. Cahoone in the War of 1812. He returned

unharmed, married in 1814, and became a father on that memorable night of September 23,

1815, when a great gale drove the waters of the bay over half the town, and floated a tall

sloop well up Westminster Street so that its masts almost tapped the Harris windows in

symbolic affirmation that the new boy, Welcome, was a seaman‘s son.

Welcome did not survive his father, but lived to perish gloriously at Fredericksburg in 1862.

Neither he nor his son Archer knew of the shunned house as other than a nuisance almost

impossible to rent—perhaps on account of the mustiness and sickly odour of unkempt old

age. Indeed, it never was rented after a series of deaths culminating in 1861, which the

excitement of the war tended to throw into obscurity. Carrington Harris, last of the male line,

knew it only as a deserted and somewhat picturesque centre of legend until I told him my

experience. He had meant to tear it down and build an apartment house on the site, but after

my account decided to let it stand, install plumbing, and rent it. Nor has he yet had any

difficulty in obtaining tenants. The horror has gone.

III.

It may well be imagined how powerfully I was affected by the annals of the Harrises. In this

continuous record there seemed to me to brood a persistent evil beyond anything in Nature

as I had known it; an evil clearly connected with the house and not with the family. This

impression was confirmed by my uncle‘s less systematic array of miscellaneous data—

legends transcribed from servant gossip, cuttings from the papers, copies of death-certificates

by fellow-physicians, and the like. All of this material I cannot hope to give, for my uncle was a

tireless antiquarian and very deeply interested in the shunned house; but I may refer to

several dominant points which earn notice by their recurrence through many reports from

diverse sources. For example, the servant gossip was practically unanimous in attributing to

the fungous and malodorous cellar of the house a vast supremacy in evil influence. There had

been servants—Ann White especially—who would not use the cellar kitchen, and at least

three well-defined legends bore upon the queer quasi-human or diabolic outlines assumed by

tree-roots and patches of mould in that region. These latter narratives interested me

profoundly, on account of what I had seen in my boyhood, but I felt that most of the

significance had in each case been largely obscured by additions from the common stock of

local ghost lore.

Ann White, with her Exeter superstition, had promulgated the most extravagant and at the

same time most consistent tale; alleging that there must lie buried beneath the house one of

those vampires—the dead who retain their bodily form and live on the blood or breath of the

living—whose hideous legions send their preying shapes or spirits abroad by night. To destroy

a vampire one must, the grandmothers say, exhume it and burn its heart, or at least drive a

stake through that organ; and Ann‘s dogged insistence on a search under the cellar had been

prominent in bringing about her discharge.

Her tales, however, commanded a wide audience, and were the more readily accepted

because the house indeed stood on land once used for burial purposes. To me their interest

depended less on this circumstance than on the peculiarly appropriate way in which they

dovetailed with certain other things—the complaint of the departing servant Preserved Smith,

who had preceded Ann and never heard of her, that something ―sucked his breath‖ at night;

the death-certificates of fever victims of 1804, issued by Dr. Chad Hopkins, and shewing the

four deceased persons all unaccountably lacking in blood; and the obscure passages of poor

Rhoby Harris‘s ravings, where she complained of the sharp teeth of a glassy-eyed, half-visible

presence.

Free from unwarranted superstition though I am, these things produced in me an odd

sensation, which was intensified by a pair of widely separated newspaper cuttings relating to

deaths in the shunned house—one from the Providence Gazette and Country-Journal of April

12, 1815, and the other from the Daily Transcript and Chronicle of October 27, 1845—each of

which detailed an appallingly grisly circumstance whose duplication was remarkable. It seems

that in both instances the dying person, in 1815 a gentle old lady named Stafford and in 1845

a school-teacher of middle age named Eleazar Durfee, became transfigured in a horrible way;

glaring glassily and attempting to bite the throat of the attending physician. Even more

puzzling, though, was the final case which put an end to the renting of the house—a series of

anaemia deaths preceded by progressive madnesses wherein the patient would craftily

attempt the lives of his relatives by incisions in the neck or wrist.

This was in 1860 and 1861, when my uncle had just begun his medical practice; and before

leaving for the front he heard much of it from his elder professional colleagues. The really

inexplicable thing was the way in which the victims—ignorant people, for the ill-smelling and

widely shunned house could now be rented to no others—would babble maledictions in

French, a language they could not possibly have studied to any extent. It made one think of

poor Rhoby Harris nearly a century before, and so moved my uncle that he commenced

collecting historical data on the house after listening, some time subsequent to his return from

the war, to the first-hand account of Drs. Chase and Whitmarsh. Indeed, I could see that my

uncle had thought deeply on the subject, and that he was glad of my own interest—an open-

minded and sympathetic interest which enabled him to discuss with me matters at which

others would merely have laughed. His fancy had not gone so far as mine, but he felt that the

place was rare in its imaginative potentialities, and worthy of note as an inspiration in the field

of the grotesque and macabre.

For my part, I was disposed to take the whole subject with profound seriousness, and began

at once not only to review the evidence, but to accumulate as much more as I could. I talked

with the elderly Archer Harris, then owner of the house, many times before his death in 1916;

and obtained from him and his still surviving maiden sister Alice an authentic corroboration of

all the family data my uncle had collected. When, however, I asked them what connexion with

France or its language the house could have, they confessed themselves as frankly baffled

and ignorant as I. Archer knew nothing, and all that Miss Harris could say was that an old

allusion her grandfather, Dutee Harris, had heard of might have shed a little light. The old

seaman, who had survived his son Welcome‘s death in battle by two years, had not himself

known the legend; but recalled that his earliest nurse, the ancient Maria Robbins, seemed

darkly aware of something that might have lent a weird significance to the French ravings of

Rhoby Harris, which she had so often heard during the last days of that hapless woman.

Maria had been at the shunned house from 1769 till the removal of the family in 1783, and

had seen Mercy Dexter die. Once she hinted to the child Dutee of a somewhat peculiar

circumstance in Mercy‘s last moments, but he had soon forgotten all about it save that it was

something peculiar. The granddaughter, moreover, recalled even this much with difficulty. She

and her brother were not so much interested in the house as was Archer‘s son Carrington, the

present owner, with whom I talked after my experience.

Having exhausted the Harris family of all the information it could furnish, I turned my attention

to early town records and deeds with a zeal more penetrating than that which my uncle had

occasionally shewn in the same work. What I wished was a comprehensive history of the site

from its very settlement in 1636—or even before, if any Narragansett Indian legend could be

unearthed to supply the data. I found, at the start, that the land had been part of the long strip

of home lot granted originally to John Throckmorton; one of many similar strips beginning at

the Town Street beside the river and extending up over the hill to a line roughly corresponding

with the modern Hope Street. The Throckmorton lot had later, of course, been much

subdivided; and I became very assiduous in tracing that section through which Back or

Benefit Street was later run. It had, a rumour indeed said, been the Throckmorton graveyard;

but as I examined the records more carefully, I found that the graves had all been transferred

at an early date to the North Burial Ground on the Pawtucket West Road.

Then suddenly I came—by a rare piece of chance, since it was not in the main body of

records and might easily have been missed—upon something which aroused my keenest

eagerness, fitting in as it did with several of the queerest phases of the affair. It was the

record of a lease, in 1697, of a small tract of ground to an Etienne Roulet and wife. At last the

French element had appeared—that, and another deeper element of horror which the name

conjured up from the darkest recesses of my weird and heterogeneous reading—and I

feverishly studied the platting of the locality as it had been before the cutting through and

partial straightening of Back Street between 1747 and 1758. I found what I had half expected,

that where the shunned house now stood the Roulets had laid out their graveyard behind a

one-story and attic cottage, and that no record of any transfer of graves existed. The

document, indeed, ended in much confusion; and I was forced to ransack both the Rhode

Island Historical Society and Shepley Library before I could find a local door which the name

Etienne Roulet would unlock. In the end I did find something; something of such vague but

monstrous import that I set about at once to examine the cellar of the shunned house itself

with a new and excited minuteness.

The Roulets, it seemed, had come in 1696 from East Greenwich, down the west shore of

Narragansett Bay. They were Huguenots from Caude, and had encountered much opposition

before the Providence selectmen allowed them to settle in the town. Unpopularity had dogged

them in East Greenwich, whither they had come in 1686, after the revocation of the Edict of

Nantes, and rumour said that the cause of dislike extended beyond mere racial and national

prejudice, or the land disputes which involved other French settlers with the English in

rivalries which not even Governor Andros could quell. But their ardent Protestantism—too

ardent, some whispered—and their evident distress when virtually driven from the village

down the bay, had moved the sympathy of the town fathers. Here the strangers had been

granted a haven; and the swarthy Etienne Roulet, less apt at agriculture than at reading queer

books and drawing queer diagrams, was given a clerical post in the warehouse at Pardon

Tillinghast‘s wharf, far south in Town Street. There had, however, been a riot of some sort later

on—perhaps forty years later, after old Roulet‘s death—and no one seemed to hear of the

family after that.

For a century and more, it appeared, the Roulets had been well remembered and frequently

discussed as vivid incidents in the quiet life of a New England seaport. Etienne‘s son Paul, a

surly fellow whose erratic conduct had probably provoked the riot which wiped out the family,

was particularly a source of speculation; and though Providence never shared the witchcraft

panics of her Puritan neighbours, it was freely intimated by old wives that his prayers were

neither uttered at the proper time nor directed toward the proper object. All this had

undoubtedly formed the basis of the legend known by old Maria Robbins. What relation it had

to the French ravings of Rhoby Harris and other inhabitants of the shunned house,

imagination or future discovery alone could determine. I wondered how many of those who

had known the legends realised that additional link with the terrible which my wide reading

had given me; that ominous item in the annals of morbid horror which tells of the creature

Jacques Roulet, of Caude, who in 1598 was condemned to death as a daemoniac but

afterward saved from the stake by the Paris parliament and shut in a madhouse. He had been

found covered with blood and shreds of flesh in a wood, shortly after the killing and rending of

a boy by a pair of wolves. One wolf was seen to lope away unhurt. Surely a pretty hearthside

tale, with a queer significance as to name and place; but I decided that the Providence

gossips could not have generally known of it. Had they known, the coincidence of names

would have brought some drastic and frightened action—indeed, might not its limited

whispering have precipitated the final riot which erased the Roulets from the town?

I now visited the accursed place with increased frequency; studying the unwholesome

vegetation of the garden, examining all the walls of the building, and poring over every inch of

the earthen cellar floor. Finally, with Carrington Harris‘s permission, I fitted a key to the

disused door opening from the cellar directly upon Benefit Street, preferring to have a more

immediate access to the outside world than the dark stairs, ground floor hall, and front door

could give. There, where morbidity lurked most thickly, I searched and poked during long

afternoons when the sunlight filtered in through the cobwebbed above-ground windows, and a

sense of security glowed from the unlocked door which placed me only a few feet from the

placid sidewalk outside. Nothing new rewarded my efforts—only the same depressing

mustiness and faint suggestions of noxious odours and nitrous outlines on the floor—and I

fancy that many pedestrians must have watched me curiously through the broken panes.

At length, upon a suggestion of my uncle‘s, I decided to try the spot nocturnally; and one

stormy midnight ran the beams of an electric torch over the mouldy floor with its uncanny

shapes and distorted, half-phosphorescent fungi. The place had dispirited me curiously that

evening, and I was almost prepared when I saw—or thought I saw—amidst the whitish

deposits a particularly sharp definition of the ―huddled form‖ I had suspected from boyhood.

Its clearness was astonishing and unprecedented—and as I watched I seemed to see again

the thin, yellowish, shimmering exhalation which had startled me on that rainy afternoon so

many years before.

Above the anthropomorphic patch of mould by the fireplace it rose; a subtle, sickish, almost

luminous vapour which as it hung trembling in the dampness seemed to develop vague and

shocking suggestions of form, gradually trailing off into nebulous decay and passing up into

the blackness of the great chimney with a foetor in its wake. It was truly horrible, and the more

so to me because of what I knew of the spot. Refusing to flee, I watched it fade—and as I

watched I felt that it was in turn watching me greedily with eyes more imaginable than visible.

When I told my uncle about it he was greatly aroused; and after a tense hour of reflection,

arrived at a definite and drastic decision. Weighing in his mind the importance of the matter,

and the significance of our relation to it, he insisted that we both test—and if possible

destroy—the horror of the house by a joint night or nights of aggressive vigil in that musty and

fungus-cursed cellar.

IV.

On Wednesday, June 25, 1919, after a proper notification of Carrington Harris which did not

include surmises as to what we expected to find, my uncle and I conveyed to the shunned

house two camp chairs and a folding camp cot, together with some scientific mechanism of

greater weight and intricacy. These we placed in the cellar during the day, screening the

windows with paper and planning to return in the evening for our first vigil. We had locked the

door from the cellar to the ground floor; and having a key to the outside cellar door, we were

prepared to leave our expensive and delicate apparatus—which we had obtained secretly and

at great cost—as many days as our vigils might need to be protracted. It was our design to sit

up together till very late, and then watch singly till dawn in two-hour stretches, myself first and

then my companion; the inactive member resting on the cot.

The natural leadership with which my uncle procured the instruments from the laboratories of

Brown University and the Cranston Street Armoury, and instinctively assumed direction of our

venture, was a marvellous commentary on the potential vitality and resilience of a man of

eighty-one. Elihu Whipple had lived according to the hygienic laws he had preached as a

physician, and but for what happened later would be here in full vigour today. Only two

persons suspect what did happen—Carrington Harris and myself. I had to tell Harris because

he owned the house and deserved to know what had gone out of it. Then too, we had spoken

to him in advance of our quest; and I felt after my uncle‘s going that he would understand and

assist me in some vitally necessary public explanations. He turned very pale, but agreed to

help me, and decided that it would now be safe to rent the house.

To declare that we were not nervous on that rainy night of watching would be an exaggeration

both gross and ridiculous. We were not, as I have said, in any sense childishly superstitious,

but scientific study and reflection had taught us that the known universe of three dimensions

embraces the merest fraction of the whole cosmos of substance and energy. In this case an

overwhelming preponderance of evidence from numerous authentic sources pointed to the

tenacious existence of certain forces of great power and, so far as the human point of view is

concerned, exceptional malignancy. To say that we actually believed in vampires or

werewolves would be a carelessly inclusive statement. Rather must it be said that we were

not prepared to deny the possibility of certain unfamiliar and unclassified modifications of vital

force and attenuated matter; existing very infrequently in three-dimensional space because of

its more intimate connexion with other spatial units, yet close enough to the boundary of our

own to furnish us occasional manifestations which we, for lack of a proper vantage-point, may

never hope to understand.

In short, it seemed to my uncle and me that an incontrovertible array of facts pointed to some

lingering influence in the shunned house; traceable to one or another of the ill-favoured

French settlers of two centuries before, and still operative through rare and unknown laws of

atomic and electronic motion. That the family of Roulet had possessed an abnormal affinity for

outer circles of entity—dark spheres which for normal folk hold only repulsion and terror—

their recorded history seemed to prove. Had not, then, the riots of those bygone seventeen-

thirties set moving certain kinetic patterns in the morbid brain of one or more of them—notably

the sinister Paul Roulet—which obscurely survived the bodies murdered and buried by the

mob, and continued to function in some multiple-dimensioned space along the original lines of

force determined by a frantic hatred of the encroaching community?

Such a thing was surely not a physical or biochemical impossibility in the light of a newer

science which includes the theories of relativity and intra-atomic action. One might easily

imagine an alien nucleus of substance or energy, formless or otherwise, kept alive by

imperceptible or immaterial subtractions from the life-force or bodily tissues and fluids of other

and more palpably living things into which it penetrates and with whose fabric it sometimes

completely merges itself. It might be actively hostile, or it might be dictated merely by blind

motives of self-preservation. In any case such a monster must of necessity be in our scheme

of things an anomaly and an intruder, whose extirpation forms a primary duty with every man

not an enemy to the world‘s life, health, and sanity.

What baffled us was our utter ignorance of the aspect in which we might encounter the thing.

No sane person had even seen it, and few had ever felt it definitely. It might be pure energy—

a form ethereal and outside the realm of substance—or it might be partly material; some

unknown and equivocal mass of plasticity, capable of changing at will to nebulous

approximations of the solid, liquid, gaseous, or tenuously unparticled states. The

anthropomorphic patch of mould on the floor, the form of the yellowish vapour, and the

curvature of the tree-roots in some of the old tales, all argued at least a remote and

reminiscent connexion with the human shape; but how representative or permanent that

similarity might be, none could say with any kind of certainty.

We had devised two weapons to fight it; a large and specially fitted Crookes tube operated by

powerful storage batteries and provided with peculiar screens and reflectors, in case it proved

intangible and opposable only by vigorously destructive ether radiations, and a pair of military

flame-throwers of the sort used in the world-war, in case it proved partly material and

susceptible of mechanical destruction—for like the superstitious Exeter rustics, we were

prepared to burn the thing‘s heart out if heart existed to burn. All this aggressive mechanism

we set in the cellar in positions carefully arranged with reference to the cot and chairs, and to

the spot before the fireplace where the mould had taken strange shapes. That suggestive

patch, by the way, was only faintly visible when we placed our furniture and instruments, and

when we returned that evening for the actual vigil. For a moment I half doubted that I had ever

seen it in the more definitely limned form—but then I thought of the legends.

Our cellar vigil began at 10 p.m., daylight saving time, and as it continued we found no

promise of pertinent developments. A weak, filtered glow from the rain-harassed street-lamps

outside, and a feeble phosphorescence from the detestable fungi within, shewed the dripping

stone of the walls, from which all traces of whitewash had vanished; the dank, foetid, and

mildew-tainted hard earth floor with its obscene fungi; the rotting remains of what had been

stools, chairs, and tables, and other more shapeless furniture; the heavy planks and massive

beams of the ground floor overhead; the decrepit plank door leading to bins and chambers

beneath other parts of the house; the crumbling stone staircase with ruined wooden hand-rail;

and the crude and cavernous fireplace of blackened brick where rusted iron fragments

revealed the past presence of hooks, andirons, spit, crane, and a door to the Dutch oven—

these things, and our austere cot and camp chairs, and the heavy and intricate destructive

machinery we had brought.

We had, as in my own former explorations, left the door to the street unlocked; so that a direct

and practical path of escape might lie open in case of manifestations beyond our power to

deal with. It was our idea that our continued nocturnal presence would call forth whatever

malign entity lurked there; and that being prepared, we could dispose of the thing with one or

the other of our provided means as soon as we had recognised and observed it sufficiently.

How long it might require to evoke and extinguish the thing, we had no notion. It occurred to

us, too, that our venture was far from safe; for in what strength the thing might appear no one

could tell. But we deemed the game worth the hazard, and embarked on it alone and

unhesitatingly; conscious that the seeking of outside aid would only expose us to ridicule and

perhaps defeat our entire purpose. Such was our frame of mind as we talked—far into the

night, till my uncle‘s growing drowsiness made me remind him to lie down for his two-hour

sleep.

Something like fear chilled me as I sat there in the small hours alone—I say alone, for one

who sits by a sleeper is indeed alone; perhaps more alone than he can realise. My uncle

breathed heavily, his deep inhalations and exhalations accompanied by the rain outside, and

punctuated by another nerve-racking sound of distant dripping water within—for the house

was repulsively damp even in dry weather, and in this storm positively swamp-like. I studied

the loose, antique masonry of the walls in the fungus-light and the feeble rays which stole in

from the street through the screened windows; and once, when the noisome atmosphere of

the place seemed about to sicken me, I opened the door and looked up and down the street,

feasting my eyes on familiar sights and my nostrils on the wholesome air. Still nothing

occurred to reward my watching; and I yawned repeatedly, fatigue getting the better of

apprehension.

Then the stirring of my uncle in his sleep attracted my notice. He had turned restlessly on the

cot several times during the latter half of the first hour, but now he was breathing with unusual

irregularity, occasionally heaving a sigh which held more than a few of the qualities of a

choking moan. I turned my electric flashlight on him and found his face averted, so rising and

crossing to the other side of the cot, I again flashed the light to see if he seemed in any pain.

What I saw unnerved me most surprisingly, considering its relative triviality. It must have been

merely the association of any odd circumstance with the sinister nature of our location and

mission, for surely the circumstance was not in itself frightful or unnatural. It was merely that

my uncle‘s facial expression, disturbed no doubt by the strange dreams which our situation

prompted, betrayed considerable agitation, and seemed not at all characteristic of him. His

habitual expression was one of kindly and well-bred calm, whereas now a variety of emotions

seemed struggling within him. I think, on the whole, that it was this variety which chiefly

disturbed me. My uncle, as he gasped and tossed in increasing perturbation and with eyes

that had now started open, seemed not one but many men, and suggested a curious quality

of alienage from himself.

All at once he commenced to mutter, and I did not like the look of his mouth and teeth as he

spoke. The words were at first indistinguishable, and then—with a tremendous start—I

recognised something about them which filled me with icy fear till I recalled the breadth of my

uncle‘s education and the interminable translations he had made from anthropological and

antiquarian articles in the Revue des Deux Mondes. For the venerable Elihu Whipple was

muttering in French, and the few phrases I could distinguish seemed connected with the

darkest myths he had ever adapted from the famous Paris magazine.

Suddenly a perspiration broke out on the sleeper‘s forehead, and he leaped abruptly up, half

awake. The jumble of French changed to a cry in English, and the hoarse voice shouted

excitedly, ―My breath, my breath!‖ Then the awakening became complete, and with a

subsidence of facial expression to the normal state my uncle seized my hand and began to

relate a dream whose nucleus of significance I could only surmise with a kind of awe.

He had, he said, floated off from a very ordinary series of dream-pictures into a scene whose

strangeness was related to nothing he had ever read. It was of this world, and yet not of it—a

shadowy geometrical confusion in which could be seen elements of familiar things in most

unfamiliar and perturbing combinations. There was a suggestion of queerly disordered

pictures superimposed one upon another; an arrangement in which the essentials of time as

well as of space seemed dissolved and mixed in the most illogical fashion. In this

kaleidoscopic vortex of phantasmal images were occasional snapshots, if one might use the

term, of singular clearness but unaccountable heterogeneity.

Once my uncle thought he lay in a carelessly dug open pit, with a crowd of angry faces

framed by straggling locks and three-cornered hats frowning down on him. Again he seemed

to be in the interior of a house—an old house, apparently—but the details and inhabitants

were constantly changing, and he could never be certain of the faces or the furniture, or even

of the room itself, since doors and windows seemed in just as great a state of flux as the more

presumably mobile objects. It was queer—damnably queer—and my uncle spoke almost

sheepishly, as if half expecting not to be believed, when he declared that of the strange faces

many had unmistakably borne the features of the Harris family. And all the while there was a

personal sensation of choking, as if some pervasive presence had spread itself through his

body and sought to possess itself of his vital processes. I shuddered at the thought of those

vital processes, worn as they were by eighty-one years of continuous functioning, in conflict

with unknown forces of which the youngest and strongest system might well be afraid; but in

another moment reflected that dreams are only dreams, and that these uncomfortable visions

could be, at most, no more than my uncle‘s reaction to the investigations and expectations

which had lately filled our minds to the exclusion of all else.

Conversation, also, soon tended to dispel my sense of strangeness; and in time I yielded to

my yawns and took my turn at slumber. My uncle seemed now very wakeful, and welcomed

his period of watching even though the nightmare had aroused him far ahead of his allotted

two hours. Sleep seized me quickly, and I was at once haunted with dreams of the most

disturbing kind. I felt, in my visions, a cosmic and abysmal loneness; with hostility surging

from all sides upon some prison where I lay confined. I seemed bound and gagged, and

taunted by the echoing yells of distant multitudes who thirsted for my blood. My uncle‘s face

came to me with less pleasant associations than in waking hours, and I recall many futile

struggles and attempts to scream. It was not a pleasant sleep, and for a second I was not

sorry for the echoing shriek which clove through the barriers of dream and flung me to a sharp

and startled awakeness in which every actual object before my eyes stood out with more than

natural clearness and reality.

I had been lying with my face away from my uncle‘s chair, so that in this sudden flash of

awakening I saw only the door to the street, the more northerly window, and the wall and floor

and ceiling toward the north of the room, all photographed with morbid vividness on my brain

in a light brighter than the glow of the fungi or the rays from the street outside. It was not a

strong or even a fairly strong light; certainly not nearly strong enough to read an average book

by. But it cast a shadow of myself and the cot on the floor, and had a yellowish, penetrating

force that hinted at things more potent than luminosity. This I perceived with unhealthy

sharpness despite the fact that two of my other senses were violently assailed. For on my

ears rang the reverberations of that shocking scream, while my nostrils revolted at the stench

which filled the place. My mind, as alert as my senses, recognised the gravely unusual; and

almost automatically I leaped up and turned about to grasp the destructive instruments which

we had left trained on the mouldy spot before the fireplace. As I turned, I dreaded what I was

to see; for the scream had been in my uncle‘s voice, and I knew not against what menace I

should have to defend him and myself.

Yet after all, the sight was worse than I had dreaded. There are horrors beyond horrors, and

this was one of those nuclei of all dreamable hideousness which the cosmos saves to blast

an accursed and unhappy few. Out of the fungus-ridden earth steamed up a vaporous corpse-

light, yellow and diseased, which bubbled and lapped to a gigantic height in vague outlines

half-human and half-monstrous, through which I could see the chimney and fireplace beyond.

It was all eyes—wolfish and mocking—and the rugose insect-like head dissolved at the top to

a thin stream of mist which curled putridly about and finally vanished up the chimney. I say

that I saw this thing, but it is only in conscious retrospection that I ever definitely traced its

damnable approach to form. At the time it was to me only a seething, dimly phosphorescent

cloud of fungous loathsomeness, enveloping and dissolving to an abhorrent plasticity the one

object to which all my attention was focussed. That object was my uncle—the venerable Elihu

Whipple—who with blackening and decaying features leered and gibbered at me, and

reached out dripping claws to rend me in the fury which this horror had brought.

It was a sense of routine which kept me from going mad. I had drilled myself in preparation for

the crucial moment, and blind training saved me. Recognising the bubbling evil as no

substance reachable by matter or material chemistry, and therefore ignoring the flame-thrower

which loomed on my left, I threw on the current of the Crookes tube apparatus, and focussed

toward that scene of immortal blasphemousness the strongest ether radiations which man‘s

art can arouse from the spaces and fluids of Nature. There was a bluish haze and a frenzied

sputtering, and the yellowish phosphorescence grew dimmer to my eyes. But I saw the

dimness was only that of contrast, and that the waves from the machine had no effect

whatever.

Then, in the midst of that daemoniac spectacle, I saw a fresh horror which brought cries to my

lips and sent me fumbling and staggering toward that unlocked door to the quiet street,

careless of what abnormal terrors I loosed upon the world, or what thoughts or judgments of

men I brought down upon my head. In that dim blend of blue and yellow the form of my uncle

had commenced a nauseous liquefaction whose essence eludes all description, and in which

there played across his vanishing face such changes of identity as only madness can

conceive. He was at once a devil and a multitude, a charnel-house and a pageant. Lit by the

mixed and uncertain beams, that gelatinous face assumed a dozen—a score—a hundred—

aspects; grinning, as it sank to the ground on a body that melted like tallow, in the caricatured

likeness of legions strange and yet not strange.

I saw the features of the Harris line, masculine and feminine, adult and infantile, and other

features old and young, coarse and refined, familiar and unfamiliar. For a second there

flashed a degraded counterfeit of a miniature of poor mad Rhoby Harris that I had seen in the

School of Design Museum, and another time I thought I caught the raw-boned image of Mercy

Dexter as I recalled her from a painting in Carrington Harris‘s house. It was frightful beyond

conception; toward the last, when a curious blend of servant and baby visages flickered close

to the fungous floor where a pool of greenish grease was spreading, it seemed as though the

shifting features fought against themselves, and strove to form contours like those of my

uncle‘s kindly face. I like to think that he existed at that moment, and that he tried to bid me

farewell. It seems to me I hiccoughed a farewell from my own parched throat as I lurched out

into the street; a thin stream of grease following me through the door to the rain-drenched

sidewalk.

The rest is shadowy and monstrous. There was no one in the soaking street, and in all the

world there was no one I dared tell. I walked aimlessly south past College Hill and the

Athenaeum, down Hopkins Street, and over the bridge to the business section where tall

buildings seemed to guard me as modern material things guard the world from ancient and

unwholesome wonder. Then grey dawn unfolded wetly from the east, silhouetting the archaic

hill and its venerable steeples, and beckoning me to the place where my terrible work was still

unfinished. And in the end I went, wet, hatless, and dazed in the morning light, and entered

that awful door in Benefit Street which I had left ajar, and which still swung cryptically in full

sight of the early householders to whom I dared not speak.

The grease was gone, for the mouldy floor was porous. And in front of the fireplace was no

vestige of the giant doubled-up form in nitre. I looked at the cot, the chairs, the instruments,

my neglected hat, and the yellowed straw hat of my uncle. Dazedness was uppermost, and I

could scarcely recall what was dream and what was reality. Then thought trickled back, and I

knew that I had witnessed things more horrible than I had dreamed. Sitting down, I tried to

conjecture as nearly as sanity would let me just what had happened, and how I might end the

horror, if indeed it had been real. Matter it seemed not to be, nor ether, nor anything else

conceivable by mortal mind. What, then, but some exotic emanation; some vampirish vapour

such as Exeter rustics tell of as lurking over certain churchyards? This I felt was the clue, and

again I looked at the floor before the fireplace where the mould and nitre had taken strange

forms. In ten minutes my mind was made up, and taking my hat I set out for home, where I

bathed, ate, and gave by telephone an order for a pickaxe, a spade, a military gas-mask, and

six carboys of sulphuric acid, all to be delivered the next morning at the cellar door of the

shunned house in Benefit Street. After that I tried to sleep; and failing, passed the hours in

reading and in the composition of inane verses to counteract my mood.

At 11 a.m. the next day I commenced digging. It was sunny weather, and I was glad of that. I

was still alone, for as much as I feared the unknown horror I sought, there was more fear in

the thought of telling anybody. Later I told Harris only through sheer necessity, and because

he had heard odd tales from old people which disposed him ever so little toward belief. As I

turned up the stinking black earth in front of the fireplace, my spade causing a viscous yellow

ichor to ooze from the white fungi which it severed, I trembled at the dubious thoughts of what

I might uncover. Some secrets of inner earth are not good for mankind, and this seemed to

me one of them.

My hand shook perceptibly, but still I delved; after a while standing in the large hole I had

made. With the deepening of the hole, which was about six feet square, the evil smell

increased; and I lost all doubt of my imminent contact with the hellish thing whose emanations

had cursed the house for over a century and a half. I wondered what it would look like—what

its form and substance would be, and how big it might have waxed through long ages of life-

sucking. At length I climbed out of the hole and dispersed the heaped-up dirt, then arranging

the great carboys of acid around and near two sides, so that when necessary I might empty

them all down the aperture in quick succession. After that I dumped earth only along the other

two sides; working more slowly and donning my gas-mask as the smell grew. I was nearly

unnerved at my proximity to a nameless thing at the bottom of a pit.

Suddenly my spade struck something softer than earth. I shuddered, and made a motion as if

to climb out of the hole, which was now as deep as my neck. Then courage returned, and I

scraped away more dirt in the light of the electric torch I had provided. The surface I

uncovered was fishy and glassy—a kind of semi-putrid congealed jelly with suggestions of

translucency. I scraped further, and saw that it had form. There was a rift where a part of the

substance was folded over. The exposed area was huge and roughly cylindrical; like a

mammoth soft blue-white stovepipe doubled in two, its largest part some two feet in diameter.

Still more I scraped, and then abruptly I leaped out of the hole and away from the filthy thing;

frantically unstopping and tilting the heavy carboys, and precipitating their corrosive contents

one after another down that charnel gulf and upon the unthinkable abnormality whose titan

elbow I had seen.

The blinding maelstrom of greenish-yellow vapour which surged tempestuously up from that

hole as the floods of acid descended, will never leave my memory. All along the hill people tell

of the yellow day, when virulent and horrible fumes arose from the factory waste dumped in

the Providence River, but I know how mistaken they are as to the source. They tell, too, of the

hideous roar which at the same time came from some disordered water-pipe or gas main

underground—but again I could correct them if I dared. It was unspeakably shocking, and I do

not see how I lived through it. I did faint after emptying the fourth carboy, which I had to

handle after the fumes had begun to penetrate my mask; but when I recovered I saw that the

hole was emitting no fresh vapours.

The two remaining carboys I emptied down without particular result, and after a time I felt it

safe to shovel the earth back into the pit. It was twilight before I was done, but fear had gone

out of the place. The dampness was less foetid, and all the strange fungi had withered to a

kind of harmless greyish powder which blew ash-like along the floor. One of earth‘s

nethermost terrors had perished forever; and if there be a hell, it had received at last the

daemon soul of an unhallowed thing. And as I patted down the last spadeful of mould, I shed

the first of the many tears with which I have paid unaffected tribute to my beloved uncle‘s

memory.

The next spring no more pale grass and strange weeds came up in the shunned house‘s

terraced garden, and shortly afterward Carrington Harris rented the place. It is still spectral,

but its strangeness fascinates me, and I shall find mixed with my relief a queer regret when it

is torn down to make way for a tawdry shop or vulgar apartment building. The barren old trees

in the yard have begun to bear small, sweet apples, and last year the birds nested in their

gnarled boughs.

Return to Table of Contents

The Horror at Red Hook

(1925)

―There are sacraments of evil as well as of good about us, and we live and move to

my belief in an unknown world, a place where there are caves and shadows and

dwellers in twilight. It is possible that man may sometimes return on the track of

evolution, and it is my belief that an awful lore is not yet dead.‖

—Arthur Machen.

Not many weeks ago, on a street corner in the village of Pascoag, Rhode Island, a tall,

heavily built, and wholesome-looking pedestrian furnished much speculation by a singular

lapse of behaviour. He had, it appears, been descending the hill by the road from Chepachet;

and encountering the compact section, had turned to his left into the main thoroughfare where

several modest business blocks convey a touch of the urban. At this point, without visible

provocation, he committed his astonishing lapse; staring queerly for a second at the tallest of

the buildings before him, and then, with a series of terrified, hysterical shrieks, breaking into a

frantic run which ended in a stumble and fall at the next crossing. Picked up and dusted off by

ready hands, he was found to be conscious, organically unhurt, and evidently cured of his

sudden nervous attack. He muttered some shamefaced explanations involving a strain he had

undergone, and with downcast glance turned back up the Chepachet road, trudging out of

sight without once looking behind him. It was a strange incident to befall so large, robust,

normal-featured, and capable-looking a man, and the strangeness was not lessened by the

remarks of a bystander who had recognised him as the boarder of a well-known dairyman on

the outskirts of Chepachet.

He was, it developed, a New York police detective named Thomas F. Malone, now on a long

leave of absence under medical treatment after some disproportionately arduous work on a

gruesome local case which accident had made dramatic. There had been a collapse of

several old brick buildings during a raid in which he had shared, and something about the

wholesale loss of life, both of prisoners and of his companions, had peculiarly appalled him.

As a result, he had acquired an acute and anomalous horror of any buildings even remotely

suggesting the ones which had fallen in, so that in the end mental specialists forbade him the

sight of such things for an indefinite period. A police surgeon with relatives in Chepachet had

put forward that quaint hamlet of wooden colonial houses as an ideal spot for the

psychological convalescence; and thither the sufferer had gone, promising never to venture

among the brick-lined streets of larger villages till duly advised by the Woonsocket specialist

with whom he was put in touch. This walk to Pascoag for magazines had been a mistake, and

the patient had paid in fright, bruises, and humiliation for his disobedience.

So much the gossips of Chepachet and Pascoag knew; and so much, also, the most learned

specialists believed. But Malone had at first told the specialists much more, ceasing only

when he saw that utter incredulity was his portion. Thereafter he held his peace, protesting

not at all when it was generally agreed that the collapse of certain squalid brick houses in the

Red Hook section of Brooklyn, and the consequent death of many brave officers, had

unseated his nervous equilibrium. He had worked too hard, all said, in trying to clean up those

nests of disorder and violence; certain features were shocking enough, in all conscience, and

the unexpected tragedy was the last straw. This was a simple explanation which everyone

could understand, and because Malone was not a simple person he perceived that he had

better let it suffice. To hint to unimaginative people of a horror beyond all human conception—

a horror of houses and blocks and cities leprous and cancerous with evil dragged from elder

worlds—would be merely to invite a padded cell instead of restful rustication, and Malone was

a man of sense despite his mysticism. He had the Celt‘s far vision of weird and hidden things,

but the logician‘s quick eye for the outwardly unconvincing; an amalgam which had led him far

afield in the forty-two years of his life, and set him in strange places for a Dublin University

man born in a Georgian villa near Phoenix Park.

And now, as he reviewed the things he had seen and felt and apprehended, Malone was

content to keep unshared the secret of what could reduce a dauntless fighter to a quivering

neurotic; what could make old brick slums and seas of dark, subtle faces a thing of nightmare

and eldritch portent. It would not be the first time his sensations had been forced to bide

uninterpreted—for was not his very act of plunging into the polyglot abyss of New York‘s

underworld a freak beyond sensible explanation? What could he tell the prosaic of the antique

witcheries and grotesque marvels discernible to sensitive eyes amidst the poison cauldron

where all the varied dregs of unwholesome ages mix their venom and perpetuate their

obscene terrors? He had seen the hellish green flame of secret wonder in this blatant,

evasive welter of outward greed and inward blasphemy, and had smiled gently when all the

New-Yorkers he knew scoffed at his experiment in police work. They had been very witty and

cynical, deriding his fantastic pursuit of unknowable mysteries and assuring him that in these

days New York held nothing but cheapness and vulgarity. One of them had wagered him a

heavy sum that he could not—despite many poignant things to his credit in the Dublin

Review—even write a truly interesting story of New York low life; and now, looking back, he

perceived that cosmic irony had justified the prophet‘s words while secretly confuting their

flippant meaning. The horror, as glimpsed at last, could not make a story—for like the book

cited by Poe‘s German authority, ―es lässt sich nicht lesen—it does not permit itself to be

read.‖

II.

To Malone the sense of latent mystery in existence was always present. In youth he had felt

the hidden beauty and ecstasy of things, and had been a poet; but poverty and sorrow and

exile had turned his gaze in darker directions, and he had thrilled at the imputations of evil in

the world around. Daily life had for him come to be a phantasmagoria of macabre shadow-

studies; now glittering and leering with concealed rottenness as in Beardsley‘s best manner,

now hinting terrors behind the commonest shapes and objects as in the subtler and less

obvious work of Gustave Doré. He would often regard it as merciful that most persons of high

intelligence jeer at the inmost mysteries; for, he argued, if superior minds were ever placed in

fullest contact with the secrets preserved by ancient and lowly cults, the resultant

abnormalities would soon not only wreck the world, but threaten the very integrity of the

universe. All this reflection was no doubt morbid, but keen logic and a deep sense of humour

ably offset it. Malone was satisfied to let his notions remain as half-spied and forbidden

visions to be lightly played with; and hysteria came only when duty flung him into a hell of

revelation too sudden and insidious to escape.

He had for some time been detailed to the Butler Street station in Brooklyn when the Red

Hook matter came to his notice. Red Hook is a maze of hybrid squalor near the ancient

waterfront opposite Governor‘s Island, with dirty highways climbing the hill from the wharves

to that higher ground where the decayed lengths of Clinton and Court Streets lead off toward

the Borough Hall. Its houses are mostly of brick, dating from the first quarter to the middle of

the nineteenth century, and some of the obscurer alleys and byways have that alluring

antique flavour which conventional reading leads us to call ―Dickensian‖. The population is a

hopeless tangle and enigma; Syrian, Spanish, Italian, and negro elements impinging upon

one another, and fragments of Scandinavian and American belts lying not far distant. It is a

babel of sound and filth, and sends out strange cries to answer the lapping of oily waves at its

grimy piers and the monstrous organ litanies of the harbour whistles. Here long ago a brighter

picture dwelt, with clear-eyed mariners on the lower streets and homes of taste and

substance where the larger houses line the hill. One can trace the relics of this former

happiness in the trim shapes of the buildings, the occasional graceful churches, and the

evidences of original art and background in bits of detail here and there—a worn flight of

steps, a battered doorway, a wormy pair of decorative columns or pilasters, or a fragment of

once green space with bent and rusted iron railing. The houses are generally in solid blocks,

and now and then a many-windowed cupola arises to tell of days when the households of

captains and ship-owners watched the sea.

From this tangle of material and spiritual putrescence the blasphemies of an hundred dialects

assail the sky. Hordes of prowlers reel shouting and singing along the lanes and

thoroughfares, occasional furtive hands suddenly extinguish lights and pull down curtains,

and swarthy, sin-pitted faces disappear from windows when visitors pick their way through.

Policemen despair of order or reform, and seek rather to erect barriers protecting the outside

world from the contagion. The clang of the patrol is answered by a kind of spectral silence,

and such prisoners as are taken are never communicative. Visible offences are as varied as

the local dialects, and run the gamut from the smuggling of rum and prohibited aliens through

diverse stages of lawlessness and obscure vice to murder and mutilation in their most

abhorrent guises. That these visible affairs are not more frequent is not to the

neighbourhood‘s credit, unless the power of concealment be an art demanding credit. More

people enter Red Hook than leave it—or at least, than leave it by the landward side—and

those who are not loquacious are the likeliest to leave.

Malone found in this state of things a faint stench of secrets more terrible than any of the sins

denounced by citizens and bemoaned by priests and philanthropists. He was conscious, as

one who united imagination with scientific knowledge, that modern people under lawless

conditions tend uncannily to repeat the darkest instinctive patterns of primitive half-ape

savagery in their daily life and ritual observances; and he had often viewed with an

anthropologist‘s shudder the chanting, cursing processions of blear-eyed and pockmarked

young men which wound their way along in the dark small hours of morning. One saw groups

of these youths incessantly; sometimes in leering vigils on street corners, sometimes in

doorways playing eerily on cheap instruments of music, sometimes in stupefied dozes or

indecent dialogues around cafeteria tables near Borough Hall, and sometimes in whispering

converse around dingy taxicabs drawn up at the high stoops of crumbling and closely

shuttered old houses. They chilled and fascinated him more than he dared confess to his

associates on the force, for he seemed to see in them some monstrous thread of secret

continuity; some fiendish, cryptical, and ancient pattern utterly beyond and below the sordid

mass of facts and habits and haunts listed with such conscientious technical care by the

police. They must be, he felt inwardly, the heirs of some shocking and primordial tradition; the

sharers of debased and broken scraps from cults and ceremonies older than mankind. Their

coherence and definiteness suggested it, and it shewed in the singular suspicion of order

which lurked beneath their squalid disorder. He had not read in vain such treatises as Miss

Murray‘s Witch-Cult in Western Europe; and knew that up to recent years there had certainly

survived among peasants and furtive folk a frightful and clandestine system of assemblies

and orgies descended from dark religions antedating the Aryan world, and appearing in

popular legends as Black Masses and Witches‘ Sabbaths. That these hellish vestiges of old

Turanian-Asiatic magic and fertility-cults were even now wholly dead he could not for a

moment suppose, and he frequently wondered how much older and how much blacker than

the very worst of the muttered tales some of them might really be.

III.

It was the case of Robert Suydam which took Malone to the heart of things in Red Hook.

Suydam was a lettered recluse of ancient Dutch family, possessed originally of barely

independent means, and inhabiting the spacious but ill-preserved mansion which his

grandfather had built in Flatbush when that village was little more than a pleasant group of

colonial cottages surrounding the steepled and ivy-clad Reformed Church with its iron-railed

yard of Netherlandish gravestones. In his lonely house, set back from Martense Street amidst

a yard of venerable trees, Suydam had read and brooded for some six decades except for a

period a generation before, when he had sailed for the old world and remained there out of

sight for eight years. He could afford no servants, and would admit but few visitors to his

absolute solitude; eschewing close friendships and receiving his rare acquaintances in one of

the three ground-floor rooms which he kept in order—a vast, high-ceiled library whose walls

were solidly packed with tattered books of ponderous, archaic, and vaguely repellent aspect.

The growth of the town and its final absorption in the Brooklyn district had meant nothing to

Suydam, and he had come to mean less and less to the town. Elderly people still pointed him

out on the streets, but to most of the recent population he was merely a queer, corpulent old

fellow whose unkempt white hair, stubbly beard, shiny black clothes, and gold-headed cane

earned him an amused glance and nothing more. Malone did not know him by sight till duty

called him to the case, but had heard of him indirectly as a really profound authority on

mediaeval superstition, and had once idly meant to look up an out-of-print pamphlet of his on

the Kabbalah and the Faustus legend, which a friend had quoted from memory.

Suydam became a ―case‖ when his distant and only relatives sought court pronouncements

on his sanity. Their action seemed sudden to the outside world, but was really undertaken

only after prolonged observation and sorrowful debate. It was based on certain odd changes

in his speech and habits; wild references to impending wonders, and unaccountable

hauntings of disreputable Brooklyn neighbourhoods. He had been growing shabbier and

shabbier with the years, and now prowled about like a veritable mendicant; seen occasionally

by humiliated friends in subway stations, or loitering on the benches around Borough Hall in

conversation with groups of swarthy, evil-looking strangers. When he spoke it was to babble

of unlimited powers almost within his grasp, and to repeat with knowing leers such mystical

words or names as ―Sephiroth‖, ―Ashmodai‖, and ―Samaël‖. The court action revealed that he

was using up his income and wasting his principal in the purchase of curious tomes imported

from London and Paris, and in the maintenance of a squalid basement flat in the Red Hook

district where he spent nearly every night, receiving odd delegations of mixed rowdies and

foreigners, and apparently conducting some kind of ceremonial service behind the green

blinds of secretive windows. Detectives assigned to follow him reported strange cries and

chants and prancing of feet filtering out from these nocturnal rites, and shuddered at their

peculiar ecstasy and abandon despite the commonness of weird orgies in that sodden

section. When, however, the matter came to a hearing, Suydam managed to preserve his

liberty. Before the judge his manner grew urbane and reasonable, and he freely admitted the

queerness of demeanour and extravagant cast of language into which he had fallen through

excessive devotion to study and research. He was, he said, engaged in the investigation of

certain details of European tradition which required the closest contact with foreign groups

and their songs and folk dances. The notion that any low secret society was preying upon

him, as hinted by his relatives, was obviously absurd; and shewed how sadly limited was their

understanding of him and his work. Triumphing with his calm explanations, he was suffered to

depart unhindered; and the paid detectives of the Suydams, Corlears, and Van Brunts were

withdrawn in resigned disgust.

It was here that an alliance of Federal inspectors and police, Malone with them, entered the

case. The law had watched the Suydam action with interest, and had in many instances been

called upon to aid the private detectives. In this work it developed that Suydam‘s new

associates were among the blackest and most vicious criminals of Red Hook‘s devious lanes,

and that at least a third of them were known and repeated offenders in the matter of thievery,

disorder, and the importation of illegal immigrants. Indeed, it would not have been too much to

say that the old scholar‘s particular circle coincided almost perfectly with the worst of the

organised cliques which smuggled ashore certain nameless and unclassified Asian dregs

wisely turned back by Ellis Island. In the teeming rookeries of Parker Place—since

renamed—where Suydam had his basement flat, there had grown up a very unusual colony

of unclassified slant-eyed folk who used the Arabic alphabet but were eloquently repudiated

by the great mass of Syrians in and around Atlantic Avenue. They could all have been

deported for lack of credentials, but legalism is slow-moving, and one does not disturb Red

Hook unless publicity forces one to.

These creatures attended a tumbledown stone church, used Wednesdays as a dance-hall,

which reared its Gothic buttresses near the vilest part of the waterfront. It was nominally

Catholic; but priests throughout Brooklyn denied the place all standing and authenticity, and

policemen agreed with them when they listened to the noises it emitted at night. Malone used

to fancy he heard terrible cracked bass notes from a hidden organ far underground when the

church stood empty and unlighted, whilst all observers dreaded the shrieking and drumming

which accompanied the visible services. Suydam, when questioned, said he thought the ritual

was some remnant of Nestorian Christianity tinctured with the Shamanism of Thibet. Most of

the people, he conjectured, were of Mongoloid stock, originating somewhere in or near

Kurdistan—and Malone could not help recalling that Kurdistan is the land of the Yezidis, last

survivors of the Persian devil-worshippers. However this may have been, the stir of the

Suydam investigation made it certain that these unauthorised newcomers were flooding Red

Hook in increasing numbers; entering through some marine conspiracy unreached by

revenue officers and harbour police, overrunning Parker Place and rapidly spreading up the

hill, and welcomed with curious fraternalism by the other assorted denizens of the region.

Their squat figures and characteristic squinting physiognomies, grotesquely combined with

flashy American clothing, appeared more and more numerously among the loafers and

nomad gangsters of the Borough Hall section; till at length it was deemed necessary to

compute their numbers, ascertain their sources and occupations, and find if possible a way to

round them up and deliver them to the proper immigration authorities. To this task Malone was

assigned by agreement of Federal and city forces, and as he commenced his canvass of Red

Hook he felt poised upon the brink of nameless terrors, with the shabby, unkempt figure of

Robert Suydam as arch-fiend and adversary.

IV.

Police methods are varied and ingenious. Malone, through unostentatious rambles, carefully

casual conversations, well-timed offers of hip-pocket liquor, and judicious dialogues with

frightened prisoners, learned many isolated facts about the movement whose aspect had

become so menacing. The newcomers were indeed Kurds, but of a dialect obscure and

puzzling to exact philology. Such of them as worked lived mostly as dock-hands and

unlicenced pedlars, though frequently serving in Greek restaurants and tending corner news

stands. Most of them, however, had no visible means of support; and were obviously

connected with underworld pursuits, of which smuggling and ―bootlegging‖ were the least

indescribable. They had come in steamships, apparently tramp freighters, and had been

unloaded by stealth on moonless nights in rowboats which stole under a certain wharf and

followed a hidden canal to a secret subterranean pool beneath a house. This wharf, canal,

and house Malone could not locate, for the memories of his informants were exceedingly

confused, while their speech was to a great extent beyond even the ablest interpreters; nor

could he gain any real data on the reasons for their systematic importation. They were reticent

about the exact spot from which they had come, and were never sufficiently off guard to

reveal the agencies which had sought them out and directed their course. Indeed, they

developed something like acute fright when asked the reasons for their presence. Gangsters

of other breeds were equally taciturn, and the most that could be gathered was that some god

or great priesthood had promised them unheard-of powers and supernatural glories and

rulerships in a strange land.

The attendance of both newcomers and old gangsters at Suydam‘s closely guarded nocturnal

meetings was very regular, and the police soon learned that the erstwhile recluse had leased

additional flats to accommodate such guests as knew his password; at last occupying three

entire houses and permanently harbouring many of his queer companions. He spent but little

time now at his Flatbush home, apparently going and coming only to obtain and return books;

and his face and manner had attained an appalling pitch of wildness. Malone twice

interviewed him, but was each time brusquely repulsed. He knew nothing, he said, of any

mysterious plots or movements; and had no idea how the Kurds could have entered or what

they wanted. His business was to study undisturbed the folklore of all the immigrants of the

district; a business with which policemen had no legitimate concern. Malone mentioned his

admiration for Suydam‘s old brochure on the Kabbalah and other myths, but the old man‘s

softening was only momentary. He sensed an intrusion, and rebuffed his visitor in no

uncertain way; till Malone withdrew disgusted, and turned to other channels of information.

What Malone would have unearthed could he have worked continuously on the case, we shall

never know. As it was, a stupid conflict between city and Federal authority suspended the

investigations for several months, during which the detective was busy with other

assignments. But at no time did he lose interest, or fail to stand amazed at what began to

happen to Robert Suydam. Just at the time when a wave of kidnappings and disappearances

spread its excitement over New York, the unkempt scholar embarked upon a metamorphosis

as startling as it was absurd. One day he was seen near Borough Hall with clean-shaved

face, well-trimmed hair, and tastefully immaculate attire, and on every day thereafter some

obscure improvement was noticed in him. He maintained his new fastidiousness without

interruption, added to it an unwonted sparkle of eye and crispness of speech, and began little

by little to shed the corpulence which had so long deformed him. Now frequently taken for

less than his age, he acquired an elasticity of step and buoyancy of demeanour to match the

new tradition, and shewed a curious darkening of the hair which somehow did not suggest

dye. As the months passed, he commenced to dress less and less conservatively, and finally

astonished his new friends by renovating and redecorating his Flatbush mansion, which he

threw open in a series of receptions, summoning all the acquaintances he could remember,

and extending a special welcome to the fully forgiven relatives who had so lately sought his

restraint. Some attended through curiosity, others through duty; but all were suddenly

charmed by the dawning grace and urbanity of the former hermit. He had, he asserted,

accomplished most of his allotted work; and having just inherited some property from a half-

forgotten European friend, was about to spend his remaining years in a brighter second youth

which ease, care, and diet had made possible to him. Less and less was he seen at Red

Hook, and more and more did he move in the society to which he was born. Policemen noted

a tendency of the gangsters to congregate at the old stone church and dance-hall instead of

at the basement flat in Parker Place, though the latter and its recent annexes still overflowed

with noxious life.

Then two incidents occurred—wide enough apart, but both of intense interest in the case as

Malone envisaged it. One was a quiet announcement in the Eagle of Robert Suydam‘s

engagement to Miss Cornelia Gerritsen of Bayside, a young woman of excellent position, and

distantly related to the elderly bridegroom-elect; whilst the other was a raid on the dance-hall

church by city police, after a report that the face of a kidnapped child had been seen for a

second at one of the basement windows. Malone had participated in this raid, and studied the

place with much care when inside. Nothing was found—in fact, the building was entirely

deserted when visited—but the sensitive Celt was vaguely disturbed by many things about

the interior. There were crudely painted panels he did not like—panels which depicted sacred

faces with peculiarly worldly and sardonic expressions, and which occasionally took liberties

that even a layman‘s sense of decorum could scarcely countenance. Then, too, he did not

relish the Greek inscription on the wall above the pulpit; an ancient incantation which he had

once stumbled upon in Dublin college days, and which read, literally translated,

―O friend and companion of night, thou who rejoicest in the baying of dogs and spilt

blood, who wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs, who longest for

blood and bringest terror to mortals, Gorgo, Mormo, thousand-faced moon, look

favourably on our sacrifices!‖

When he read this he shuddered, and thought vaguely of the cracked bass organ notes he

fancied he had heard beneath the church on certain nights. He shuddered again at the rust

around the rim of a metal basin which stood on the altar, and paused nervously when his

nostrils seemed to detect a curious and ghastly stench from somewhere in the

neighbourhood. That organ memory haunted him, and he explored the basement with

particular assiduity before he left. The place was very hateful to him; yet after all, were the

blasphemous panels and inscriptions more than mere crudities perpetrated by the ignorant?

By the time of Suydam‘s wedding the kidnapping epidemic had become a popular newspaper

scandal. Most of the victims were young children of the lowest classes, but the increasing

number of disappearances had worked up a sentiment of the strongest fury. Journals

clamoured for action from the police, and once more the Butler Street station sent its men

over Red Hook for clues, discoveries, and criminals. Malone was glad to be on the trail again,

and took pride in a raid on one of Suydam‘s Parker Place houses. There, indeed, no stolen

child was found, despite the tales of screams and the red sash picked up in the areaway; but

the paintings and rough inscriptions on the peeling walls of most of the rooms, and the

primitive chemical laboratory in the attic, all helped to convince the detective that he was on

the track of something tremendous. The paintings were appalling—hideous monsters of every

shape and size, and parodies on human outlines which cannot be described. The writing was

in red, and varied from Arabic to Greek, Roman, and Hebrew letters. Malone could not read

much of it, but what he did decipher was portentous and cabbalistic enough. One frequently

repeated motto was in a sort of Hebraised Hellenistic Greek, and suggested the most terrible

daemon-evocations of the Alexandrian decadence:

HEL • HELOYM • SOTHER • EMMANVEL • SABAOTH • AGLA •

TETRAGRAMMATON • AGYROS • OTHEOS • ISCHYROS • ATHANATOS •

IEHOVA • VA • ADONAI • SADAY • HOMOVSION • MESSIAS • ESCHEREHEYE.

Circles and pentagrams loomed on every hand, and told indubitably of the strange beliefs and

aspirations of those who dwelt so squalidly here. In the cellar, however, the strangest thing

was found—a pile of genuine gold ingots covered carelessly with a piece of burlap, and

bearing upon their shining surfaces the same weird hieroglyphics which also adorned the

walls. During the raid the police encountered only a passive resistance from the squinting

Orientals that swarmed from every door. Finding nothing relevant, they had to leave all as it

was; but the precinct captain wrote Suydam a note advising him to look closely to the

character of his tenants and protégés in view of the growing public clamour.

Then came the June wedding and the great sensation. Flatbush was gay for the hour about

high noon, and pennanted motors thronged the streets near the old Dutch church where an

awning stretched from door to highway. No local event ever surpassed the Suydam-Gerritsen

nuptials in tone and scale, and the party which escorted bride and groom to the Cunard Pier

was, if not exactly the smartest, at least a solid page from the Social Register. At five o‘clock

adieux were waved, and the ponderous liner edged away from the long pier, slowly turned its

nose seaward, discarded its tug, and headed for the widening water spaces that led to old

world wonders. By night the outer harbour was cleared, and late passengers watched the

stars twinkling above an unpolluted ocean.

Whether the tramp steamer or the scream was first to gain attention, no one can say.

Probably they were simultaneous, but it is of no use to calculate. The scream came from the

Suydam stateroom, and the sailor who broke down the door could perhaps have told frightful

things if he had not forthwith gone completely mad—as it is, he shrieked more loudly than the

first victims, and thereafter ran simpering about the vessel till caught and put in irons. The

ship‘s doctor who entered the stateroom and turned on the lights a moment later did not go

mad, but told nobody what he saw till afterward, when he corresponded with Malone in

Chepachet. It was murder—strangulation—but one need not say that the claw-mark on Mrs.

Suydam‘s throat could not have come from her husband‘s or any other human hand, or that

upon the white wall there flickered for an instant in hateful red a legend which, later copied

from memory, seems to have been nothing less than the fearsome Chaldee letters of the

word ―LILITH‖. One need not mention these things because they vanished so quickly—as for

Suydam, one could at least bar others from the room until one knew what to think oneself.

The doctor has distinctly assured Malone that he did not see IT. The open porthole, just

before he turned on the lights, was clouded for a second with a certain phosphorescence, and

for a moment there seemed to echo in the night outside the suggestion of a faint and hellish

tittering; but no real outline met the eye. As proof, the doctor points to his continued sanity.

Then the tramp steamer claimed all attention. A boat put off, and a horde of swart, insolent

ruffians in officers‘ dress swarmed aboard the temporarily halted Cunarder. They wanted

Suydam or his body—they had known of his trip, and for certain reasons were sure he would

die. The captain‘s deck was almost a pandemonium; for at the instant, between the doctor‘s

report from the stateroom and the demands of the men from the tramp, not even the wisest

and gravest seaman could think what to do. Suddenly the leader of the visiting mariners, an

Arab with a hatefully negroid mouth, pulled forth a dirty, crumpled paper and handed it to the

captain. It was signed by Robert Suydam, and bore the following odd message:

―In case of sudden or unexplained accident or death on my part, please deliver me

or my body unquestioningly into the hands of the bearer and his associates.

Everything, for me, and perhaps for you, depends on absolute compliance.

Explanations can come later—do not fail me now.

ROBERT SUYDAM.‖

Captain and doctor looked at each other, and the latter whispered something to the former.

Finally they nodded rather helplessly and led the way to the Suydam stateroom. The doctor

directed the captain‘s glance away as he unlocked the door and admitted the strange

seamen, nor did he breathe easily till they filed out with their burden after an unaccountably

long period of preparation. It was wrapped in bedding from the berths, and the doctor was

glad that the outlines were not very revealing. Somehow the men got the thing over the side

and away to their tramp steamer without uncovering it. The Cunarder started again, and the

doctor and a ship‘s undertaker sought out the Suydam stateroom to perform what last

services they could. Once more the physician was forced to reticence and even to mendacity,

for a hellish thing had happened. When the undertaker asked him why he had drained off all

of Mrs. Suydam‘s blood, he neglected to affirm that he had not done so; nor did he point to

the vacant bottle-spaces on the rack, or to the odour in the sink which shewed the hasty

disposition of the bottles‘ original contents. The pockets of those men—if men they were—had

bulged damnably when they left the ship. Two hours later, and the world knew by radio all that

it ought to know of the horrible affair.

VI.

That same June evening, without having heard a word from the sea, Malone was desperately

busy among the alleys of Red Hook. A sudden stir seemed to permeate the place, and as if

apprised by ―grapevine telegraph‖ of something singular, the denizens clustered expectantly

around the dance-hall church and the houses in Parker Place. Three children had just

disappeared—blue-eyed Norwegians from the streets toward Gowanus—and there were

rumours of a mob forming among the sturdy Vikings of that section. Malone had for weeks

been urging his colleagues to attempt a general cleanup; and at last, moved by conditions

more obvious to their common sense than the conjectures of a Dublin dreamer, they had

agreed upon a final stroke. The unrest and menace of this evening had been the deciding

factor, and just about midnight a raiding party recruited from three stations descended upon

Parker Place and its environs. Doors were battered in, stragglers arrested, and candlelighted

rooms forced to disgorge unbelievable throngs of mixed foreigners in figured robes, mitres,

and other inexplicable devices. Much was lost in the melee, for objects were thrown hastily

down unexpected shafts, and betraying odours deadened by the sudden kindling of pungent

incense. But spattered blood was everywhere, and Malone shuddered whenever he saw a

brazier or altar from which the smoke was still rising.

He wanted to be in several places at once, and decided on Suydam‘s basement flat only after

a messenger had reported the complete emptiness of the dilapidated dance-hall church. The

flat, he thought, must hold some clue to a cult of which the occult scholar had so obviously

become the centre and leader; and it was with real expectancy that he ransacked the musty

rooms, noted their vaguely charnel odour, and examined the curious books, instruments, gold

ingots, and glass-stoppered bottles scattered carelessly here and there. Once a lean, black-

and-white cat edged between his feet and tripped him, overturning at the same time a beaker

half full of a red liquid. The shock was severe, and to this day Malone is not certain of what he

saw; but in dreams he still pictures that cat as it scuttled away with certain monstrous

alterations and peculiarities. Then came the locked cellar door, and the search for something

to break it down. A heavy stool stood near, and its tough seat was more than enough for the

antique panels. A crack formed and enlarged, and the whole door gave way—but from the

other side; whence poured a howling tumult of ice-cold wind with all the stenches of the

bottomless pit, and whence reached a sucking force not of earth or heaven, which, coiling

sentiently about the paralysed detective, dragged him through the aperture and down

unmeasured spaces filled with whispers and wails, and gusts of mocking laughter.

Of course it was a dream. All the specialists have told him so, and he has nothing to prove the

contrary. Indeed, he would rather have it thus; for then the sight of old brick slums and dark

foreign faces would not eat so deeply into his soul. But at the time it was all horribly real, and

nothing can ever efface the memory of those nighted crypts, those titan arcades, and those

half-formed shapes of hell that strode gigantically in silence holding half-eaten things whose

still surviving portions screamed for mercy or laughed with madness. Odours of incense and

corruption joined in sickening concert, and the black air was alive with the cloudy, semi-visible

bulk of shapeless elemental things with eyes. Somewhere dark sticky water was lapping at

onyx piers, and once the shivery tinkle of raucous little bells pealed out to greet the insane

titter of a naked phosphorescent thing which swam into sight, scrambled ashore, and climbed

up to squat leeringly on a carved golden pedestal in the background.

Avenues of limitless night seemed to radiate in every direction, till one might fancy that here

lay the root of a contagion destined to sicken and swallow cities, and engulf nations in the

foetor of hybrid pestilence. Here cosmic sin had entered, and festered by unhallowed rites

had commenced the grinning march of death that was to rot us all to fungous abnormalities

too hideous for the grave‘s holding. Satan here held his Babylonish court, and in the blood of

stainless childhood the leprous limbs of phosphorescent Lilith were laved. Incubi and

succubae howled praise to Hecate, and headless moon-calves bleated to the Magna Mater.

Goats leaped to the sound of thin accursed flutes, and aegipans chased endlessly after

misshapen fauns over rocks twisted like swollen toads. Moloch and Ashtaroth were not

absent; for in this quintessence of all damnation the bounds of consciousness were let down,

and man‘s fancy lay open to vistas of every realm of horror and every forbidden dimension

that evil had power to mould. The world and Nature were helpless against such assaults from

unsealed wells of night, nor could any sign or prayer check the Walpurgis-riot of horror which

had come when a sage with the hateful key had stumbled on a horde with the locked and

brimming coffer of transmitted daemon-lore.

Suddenly a ray of physical light shot through these phantasms, and Malone heard the sound

of oars amidst the blasphemies of things that should be dead. A boat with a lantern in its prow

darted into sight, made fast to an iron ring in the slimy stone pier, and vomited forth several

dark men bearing a long burden swathed in bedding. They took it to the naked

phosphorescent thing on the carved golden pedestal, and the thing tittered and pawed at the

bedding. Then they unswathed it, and propped upright before the pedestal the gangrenous

corpse of a corpulent old man with stubbly beard and unkempt white hair. The

phosphorescent thing tittered again, and the men produced bottles from their pockets and

anointed its feet with red, whilst they afterward gave the bottles to the thing to drink from.

All at once, from an arcaded avenue leading endlessly away, there came the daemoniac rattle

and wheeze of a blasphemous organ, choking and rumbling out the mockeries of hell in a

cracked, sardonic bass. In an instant every moving entity was electrified; and forming at once

into a ceremonial procession, the nightmare horde slithered away in quest of the sound—

goat, satyr, and aegipan, incubus, succuba, and lemur, twisted toad and shapeless elemental,

dog-faced howler and silent strutter in darkness—all led by the abominable naked

phosphorescent thing that had squatted on the carved golden throne, and that now strode

insolently bearing in its arms the glassy-eyed corpse of the corpulent old man. The strange

dark men danced in the rear, and the whole column skipped and leaped with Dionysiac fury.

Malone staggered after them a few steps, delirious and hazy, and doubtful of his place in this

or in any world. Then he turned, faltered, and sank down on the cold damp stone, gasping

and shivering as the daemon organ croaked on, and the howling and drumming and tinkling

of the mad procession grew fainter and fainter.

Vaguely he was conscious of chanted horrors and shocking croakings afar off. Now and then

a wail or whine of ceremonial devotion would float to him through the black arcade, whilst

eventually there rose the dreadful Greek incantation whose text he had read above the pulpit

of that dance-hall church.

―O friend and companion of night, thou who rejoicest in the baying of dogs (here a hideous

howl burst forth) and spilt blood (here nameless sounds vied with morbid shriekings), who

wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs (here a whistling sigh occurred), who

longest for blood and bringest terror to mortals (short, sharp cries from myriad throats), Gorgo

(repeated as response), Mormo (repeated with ecstasy), thousand-faced moon (sighs and

flute notes), look favourably on our sacrifices!‖

As the chant closed, a general shout went up, and hissing sounds nearly drowned the

croaking of the cracked bass organ. Then a gasp as from many throats, and a babel of barked

and bleated words—―Lilith, Great Lilith, behold the Bridegroom!‖ More cries, a clamour of

rioting, and the sharp, clicking footfalls of a running figure. The footfalls approached, and

Malone raised himself to his elbow to look.

The luminosity of the crypt, lately diminished, had now slightly increased; and in that devil-

light there appeared the fleeing form of that which should not flee or feel or breathe—the

glassy-eyed, gangrenous corpse of the corpulent old man, now needing no support, but

animated by some infernal sorcery of the rite just closed. After it raced the naked, tittering,

phosphorescent thing that belonged on the carven pedestal, and still farther behind panted

the dark men, and all the dread crew of sentient loathsomenesses. The corpse was gaining

on its pursuers, and seemed bent on a definite object, straining with every rotting muscle

toward the carved golden pedestal, whose necromantic importance was evidently so great.

Another moment and it had reached its goal, whilst the trailing throng laboured on with more

frantic speed. But they were too late, for in one final spurt of strength which ripped tendon

from tendon and sent its noisome bulk floundering to the floor in a state of jellyish dissolution,

the staring corpse which had been Robert Suydam achieved its object and its triumph. The

push had been tremendous, but the force had held out; and as the pusher collapsed to a

muddy blotch of corruption the pedestal he had pushed tottered, tipped, and finally careened

from its onyx base into the thick waters below, sending up a parting gleam of carven gold as it

sank heavily to undreamable gulfs of lower Tartarus. In that instant, too, the whole scene of

horror faded to nothingness before Malone‘s eyes; and he fainted amidst a thunderous crash

which seemed to blot out all the evil universe.

VII.

Malone‘s dream, experienced in full before he knew of Suydam‘s death and transfer at sea,

was curiously supplemented by some odd realities of the case; though that is no reason why

anyone should believe it. The three old houses in Parker Place, doubtless long rotten with

decay in its most insidious form, collapsed without visible cause while half the raiders and

most of the prisoners were inside; and of both the greater number were instantly killed. Only

in the basements and cellars was there much saving of life, and Malone was lucky to have

been deep below the house of Robert Suydam. For he really was there, as no one is

disposed to deny. They found him unconscious by the edge of a night-black pool, with a

grotesquely horrible jumble of decay and bone, identifiable through dental work as the body of

Suydam, a few feet away. The case was plain, for it was hither that the smugglers‘

underground canal led; and the men who took Suydam from the ship had brought him home.

They themselves were never found, or at least never identified; and the ship‘s doctor is not

yet satisfied with the simple certitudes of the police.

Suydam was evidently a leader in extensive man-smuggling operations, for the canal to his

house was but one of several subterranean channels and tunnels in the neighbourhood.

There was a tunnel from this house to a crypt beneath the dance-hall church; a crypt

accessible from the church only through a narrow secret passage in the north wall, and in

whose chambers some singular and terrible things were discovered. The croaking organ was

there, as well as a vast arched chapel with wooden benches and a strangely figured altar. The

walls were lined with small cells, in seventeen of which—hideous to relate—solitary prisoners

in a state of complete idiocy were found chained, including four mothers with infants of

disturbingly strange appearance. These infants died soon after exposure to the light; a

circumstance which the doctors thought rather merciful. Nobody but Malone, among those

who inspected them, remembered the sombre question of old Delrio: ―An sint unquam

daemones incubi et succubae, et an ex tali congressu proles nasci queat?”

Before the canals were filled up they were thoroughly dredged, and yielded forth a

sensational array of sawed and split bones of all sizes. The kidnapping epidemic, very clearly,

had been traced home; though only two of the surviving prisoners could by any legal thread

be connected with it. These men are now in prison, since they failed of conviction as

accessories in the actual murders. The carved golden pedestal or throne so often mentioned

by Malone as of primary occult importance was never brought to light, though at one place

under the Suydam house the canal was observed to sink into a well too deep for dredging. It

was choked up at the mouth and cemented over when the cellars of the new houses were

made, but Malone often speculates on what lies beneath. The police, satisfied that they had

shattered a dangerous gang of maniacs and man-smugglers, turned over to the Federal

authorities the unconvicted Kurds, who before their deportation were conclusively found to

belong to the Yezidi clan of devil-worshippers. The tramp ship and its crew remain an elusive

mystery, though cynical detectives are once more ready to combat its smuggling and rum-

running ventures. Malone thinks these detectives shew a sadly limited perspective in their

lack of wonder at the myriad unexplainable details, and the suggestive obscurity of the whole

case; though he is just as critical of the newspapers, which saw only a morbid sensation and

gloated over a minor sadist cult which they might have proclaimed a horror from the

universe‘s very heart. But he is content to rest silent in Chepachet, calming his nervous

system and praying that time may gradually transfer his terrible experience from the realm of

present reality to that of picturesque and semi-mythical remoteness.

Robert Suydam sleeps beside his bride in Greenwood Cemetery. No funeral was held over

the strangely released bones, and relatives are grateful for the swift oblivion which overtook

the case as a whole. The scholar‘s connexion with the Red Hook horrors, indeed, was never

emblazoned by legal proof; since his death forestalled the inquiry he would otherwise have

faced. His own end is not much mentioned, and the Suydams hope that posterity may recall

him only as a gentle recluse who dabbled in harmless magic and folklore.

As for Red Hook—it is always the same. Suydam came and went; a terror gathered and

faded; but the evil spirit of darkness and squalor broods on amongst the mongrels in the old

brick houses, and prowling bands still parade on unknown errands past windows where lights

and twisted faces unaccountably appear and disappear. Age-old horror is a hydra with a

thousand heads, and the cults of darkness are rooted in blasphemies deeper than the well of

Democritus. The soul of the beast is omnipresent and triumphant, and Red Hook‘s legions of

blear-eyed, pockmarked youths still chant and curse and howl as they file from abyss to

abyss, none knows whence or whither, pushed on by blind laws of biology which they may

never understand. As of old, more people enter Red Hook than leave it on the landward side,

and there are already rumours of new canals running underground to certain centres of traffic

in liquor and less mentionable things.

The dance-hall church is now mostly a dance-hall, and queer faces have appeared at night at

the windows. Lately a policeman expressed the belief that the filled-up crypt has been dug out

again, and for no simply explainable purpose. Who are we to combat poisons older than

history and mankind? Apes danced in Asia to those horrors, and the cancer lurks secure and

spreading where furtiveness hides in rows of decaying brick.

Malone does not shudder without cause—for only the other day an officer overheard a

swarthy squinting hag teaching a small child some whispered patois in the shadow of an

areaway. He listened, and thought it very strange when he heard her repeat over and over

again,

―O friend and companion of night, thou who rejoicest in the baying of dogs and spilt

blood, who wanderest in the midst of shades among the tombs, who longest for

blood and bringest terror to mortals, Gorgo, Mormo, thousand-faced moon, look

favourably on our sacrifices!‖

Return to Table of Contents

(1925)

I saw him on a sleepless night when I was walking desperately to save my soul and my

vision. My coming to New York had been a mistake; for whereas I had looked for poignant

wonder and inspiration in the teeming labyrinths of ancient streets that twist endlessly from

forgotten courts and squares and waterfronts to courts and squares and waterfronts equally

forgotten, and in the Cyclopean modern towers and pinnacles that rise blackly Babylonian

under waning moons, I had found instead only a sense of horror and oppression which

threatened to master, paralyse, and annihilate me.

The disillusion had been gradual. Coming for the first time upon the town, I had seen it in the

sunset from a bridge, majestic above its waters, its incredible peaks and pyramids rising

flower-like and delicate from pools of violet mist to play with the flaming golden clouds and the

first stars of evening. Then it had lighted up window by window above the shimmering tides

where lanterns nodded and glided and deep horns bayed weird harmonies, and itself become

a starry firmament of dream, redolent of faery music, and one with the marvels of

Carcassonne and Samarcand and El Dorado and all glorious and half-fabulous cities. Shortly

afterward I was taken through those antique ways so dear to my fancy—narrow, curving

alleys and passages where rows of red Georgian brick blinked with small-paned dormers

above pillared doorways that had looked on gilded sedans and panelled coaches—and in the

first flush of realisation of these long-wished things I thought I had indeed achieved such

treasures as would make me in time a poet.

But success and happiness were not to be. Garish daylight shewed only squalor and alienage

and the noxious elephantiasis of climbing, spreading stone where the moon had hinted of

loveliness and elder magic; and the throngs of people that seethed through the flume-like

streets were squat, swarthy strangers with hardened faces and narrow eyes, shrewd

strangers without dreams and without kinship to the scenes about them, who could never

mean aught to a blue-eyed man of the old folk, with the love of fair green lanes and white

New England village steeples in his heart.

So instead of the poems I had hoped for, there came only a shuddering blankness and

ineffable loneliness; and I saw at last a fearful truth which no one had ever dared to breathe

before—the unwhisperable secret of secrets—the fact that this city of stone and stridor is not

a sentient perpetuation of Old New York as London is of Old London and Paris of Old Paris,

but that it is in fact quite dead, its sprawling body imperfectly embalmed and infested with

queer animate things which have nothing to do with it as it was in life. Upon making this

discovery I ceased to sleep comfortably; though something of resigned tranquillity came back

as I gradually formed the habit of keeping off the streets by day and venturing abroad only at

night, when darkness calls forth what little of the past still hovers wraith-like about, and old

white doorways remember the stalwart forms that once passed through them. With this mode

of relief I even wrote a few poems, and still refrained from going home to my people lest I

seem to crawl back ignobly in defeat.

Then, on a sleepless night‘s walk, I met the man. It was in a grotesque hidden courtyard of

the Greenwich section, for there in my ignorance I had settled, having heard of the place as

the natural home of poets and artists. The archaic lanes and houses and unexpected bits of

square and court had indeed delighted me, and when I found the poets and artists to be loud-

voiced pretenders whose quaintness is tinsel and whose lives are a denial of all that pure

beauty which is poetry and art, I stayed on for love of these venerable things. I fancied them

as they were in their prime, when Greenwich was a placid village not yet engulfed by the

town; and in the hours before dawn, when all the revellers had slunk away, I used to wander

alone among their cryptical windings and brood upon the curious arcana which generations

must have deposited there. This kept my soul alive, and gave me a few of those dreams and

visions for which the poet far within me cried out.

The man came upon me at about two one cloudy August morning, as I was threading a series

of detached courtyards; now accessible only through the unlighted hallways of intervening

buildings, but once forming parts of a continuous network of picturesque alleys. I had heard of

them by vague rumour, and realised that they could not be upon any map of today; but the

fact that they were forgotten only endeared them to me, so that I had sought them with twice

my usual eagerness. Now that I had found them, my eagerness was again redoubled; for

something in their arrangement dimly hinted that they might be only a few of many such, with

dark, dumb counterparts wedged obscurely betwixt high blank walls and deserted rear

tenements, or lurking lamplessly behind archways, unbetrayed by hordes of the foreign-

speaking or guarded by furtive and uncommunicative artists whose practices do not invite

publicity or the light of day.

He spoke to me without invitation, noting my mood and glances as I studied certain

knockered doorways above iron-railed steps, the pallid glow of traceried transoms feebly

lighting my face. His own face was in shadow, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat which

somehow blended perfectly with the out-of-date cloak he affected; but I was subtly disquieted

even before he addressed me. His form was very slight, thin almost to cadaverousness; and

his voice proved phenomenally soft and hollow, though not particularly deep. He had, he said,

noticed me several times at my wanderings; and inferred that I resembled him in loving the

vestiges of former years. Would I not like the guidance of one long practiced in these

explorations, and possessed of local information profoundly deeper than any which an

obvious newcomer could possibly have gained?

As he spoke, I caught a glimpse of his face in the yellow beam from a solitary attic window. It

was a noble, even a handsome, elderly countenance; and bore the marks of a lineage and

refinement unusual for the age and place. Yet some quality about it disturbed me almost as

much as its features pleased me—perhaps it was too white, or too expressionless, or too

much out of keeping with the locality, to make me feel easy or comfortable. Nevertheless I

followed him; for in those dreary days my quest for antique beauty and mystery was all that I

had to keep my soul alive, and I reckoned it a rare favour of Fate to fall in with one whose

kindred seekings seemed to have penetrated so much farther than mine.

Something in the night constrained the cloaked man to silence, and for a long hour he led me

forward without needless words; making only the briefest of comments concerning ancient

names and dates and changes, and directing my progress very largely by gestures as we

squeezed through interstices, tiptoed through corridors, clambered over brick walls, and once

crawled on hands and knees through a low, arched passage of stone whose immense length

and tortuous twistings effaced at last every hint of geographical location I had managed to

preserve. The things we saw were very old and marvellous, or at least they seemed so in the

few straggling rays of light by which I viewed them, and I shall never forget the tottering Ionic

columns and fluted pilasters and urn-headed iron fence-posts and flaring-lintelled windows

and decorative fanlights that appeared to grow quainter and stranger the deeper we

advanced into this inexhaustible maze of unknown antiquity.

We met no person, and as time passed the lighted windows became fewer and fewer. The

street-lights we first encountered had been of oil, and of the ancient lozenge pattern. Later I

noticed some with candles; and at last, after traversing a horrible unlighted court where my

guide had to lead with his gloved hand through total blackness to a narrow wooden gate in a

high wall, we came upon a fragment of alley lit only by lanterns in front of every seventh

house—unbelievably colonial tin lanterns with conical tops and holes punched in the sides.

This alley led steeply uphill—more steeply than I thought possible in this part of New York—

and the upper end was blocked squarely by the ivy-clad wall of a private estate, beyond which

I could see a pale cupola, and the tops of trees waving against a vague lightness in the sky. In

this wall was a small, low-arched gate of nail-studded black oak, which the man proceeded to

unlock with a ponderous key. Leading me within, he steered a course in utter blackness over

what seemed to be a gravel path, and finally up a flight of stone steps to the door of the

house, which he unlocked and opened for me.

We entered, and as we did so I grew faint from a reek of infinite mustiness which welled out to

meet us, and which must have been the fruit of unwholesome centuries of decay. My host

appeared not to notice this, and in courtesy I kept silent as he piloted me up a curving

stairway, across a hall, and into a room whose door I heard him lock behind us. Then I saw

him pull the curtains of the three small-paned windows that barely shewed themselves against

the lightening sky; after which he crossed to the mantel, struck flint and steel, lighted two

candles of a candelabrum of twelve sconces, and made a gesture enjoining soft-toned

speech.

In this feeble radiance I saw that we were in a spacious, well-furnished, and panelled library

dating from the first quarter of the eighteenth century, with splendid doorway pediments, a

delightful Doric cornice, and a magnificently carved overmantel with scroll-and-urn top. Above

the crowded bookshelves at intervals along the walls were well-wrought family portraits; all

tarnished to an enigmatical dimness, and bearing an unmistakable likeness to the man who

now motioned me to a chair beside the graceful Chippendale table. Before seating himself

across the table from me, my host paused for a moment as if in embarrassment; then, tardily

removing his gloves, wide-brimmed hat, and cloak, stood theatrically revealed in full mid-

Georgian costume from queued hair and neck ruffles to knee-breeches, silk hose, and the

buckled shoes I had not previously noticed. Now slowly sinking into a lyre-back chair, he

commenced to eye me intently.

Without his hat he took on an aspect of extreme age which was scarcely visible before, and I

wondered if this unperceived mark of singular longevity were not one of the sources of my

original disquiet. When he spoke at length, his soft, hollow, and carefully muffled voice not

infrequently quavered; and now and then I had great difficulty in following him as I listened

with a thrill of amazement and half-disavowed alarm which grew each instant.

―You behold, Sir,‖ my host began, ―a man of very eccentrical habits, for whose costume no

apology need be offered to one with your wit and inclinations. Reflecting upon better times, I

have not scrupled to ascertain their ways and adopt their dress and manners; an indulgence

which offends none if practiced without ostentation. It hath been my good-fortune to retain the

rural seat of my ancestors, swallowed though it was by two towns, first Greenwich, which built

up hither after 1800, then New-York, which joined on near 1830. There were many reasons

for the close keeping of this place in my family, and I have not been remiss in discharging

such obligations. The squire who succeeded to it in 1768 studied sartain arts and made

sartain discoveries, all connected with influences residing in this particular plot of ground, and

eminently desarving of the strongest guarding. Some curious effects of these arts and

discoveries I now purpose to shew you, under the strictest secrecy; and I believe I may rely

on my judgment of men enough to have no distrust of either your interest or your fidelity.‖

He paused, but I could only nod my head. I have said that I was alarmed, yet to my soul

nothing was more deadly than the material daylight world of New York, and whether this man

were a harmless eccentric or a wielder of dangerous arts I had no choice save to follow him

and slake my sense of wonder on whatever he might have to offer. So I listened.

―To—my ancestor—‖ he softly continued, ―there appeared to reside some very remarkable

qualities in the will of mankind; qualities having a little-suspected dominance not only over the

acts of one‘s self and of others, but over every variety of force and substance in Nature, and

over many elements and dimensions deemed more univarsal than Nature herself. May I say

that he flouted the sanctity of things as great as space and time, and that he put to strange

uses the rites of sartain half-breed red Indians once encamped upon this hill? These Indians

shewed choler when the place was built, and were plaguy pestilent in asking to visit the

grounds at the full of the moon. For years they stole over the wall each month when they

could, and by stealth performed sartain acts. Then, in ‘68, the new squire catched them at

their doings, and stood still at what he saw. Thereafter he bargained with them and

exchanged the free access of his grounds for the exact inwardness of what they did; larning

that their grandfathers got part of their custom from red ancestors and part from an old

Dutchman in the time of the States-General. And pox on him, I‘m afeared the squire must

have sarved them monstrous bad rum—whether or not by intent—for a week after he larnt the

secret he was the only man living that knew it. You, Sir, are the first outsider to be told there is

a secret, and split me if I‘d have risked tampering that much with—the powers—had ye not

been so hot after bygone things.‖

I shuddered as the man grew colloquial—and with familiar speech of another day. He went

on.

―But you must know, Sir, that what—the squire—got from those mongrel salvages was but a

small part of the larning he came to have. He had not been at Oxford for nothing, nor talked to

no account with an ancient chymist and astrologer in Paris. He was, in fine, made sensible

that all the world is but the smoke of our intellects; past the bidding of the vulgar, but by the

wise to be puffed out and drawn in like any cloud of prime Virginia tobacco. What we want, we

may make about us; and what we don‘t want, we may sweep away. I won‘t say that all this is

wholly true in body, but ‘tis sufficient true to furnish a very pretty spectacle now and then. You,

I conceive, would be tickled by a better sight of sartain other years than your fancy affords

you; so be pleased to hold back any fright at what I design to shew. Come to the window and

be quiet.‖

My host now took my hand to draw me to one of the two windows on the long side of the

malodorous room, and at the first touch of his ungloved fingers I turned cold. His flesh, though

dry and firm, was of the quality of ice; and I almost shrank away from his pulling. But again I

thought of the emptiness and horror of reality, and boldly prepared to follow whithersoever I

might be led. Once at the window, the man drew apart the yellow silk curtains and directed my

stare into the blackness outside. For a moment I saw nothing save a myriad of tiny dancing

lights, far, far before me. Then, as if in response to an insidious motion of my host‘s hand, a

flash of heat-lightning played over the scene, and I looked out upon a sea of luxuriant

foliage—foliage unpolluted, and not the sea of roofs to be expected by any normal mind. On

my right the Hudson glittered wickedly, and in the distance ahead I saw the unhealthy

shimmer of a vast salt marsh constellated with nervous fireflies. The flash died, and an evil

smile illumined the waxy face of the aged necromancer.

―That was before my time—before the new squire‘s time. Pray let us try again.‖

I was faint, even fainter than the hateful modernity of that accursed city had made me.

―Good God!‖ I whispered, ―can you do that for any time?” And as he nodded, and bared the

black stumps of what had once been yellow fangs, I clutched at the curtains to prevent myself

from falling. But he steadied me with that terrible, ice-cold claw, and once more made his

insidious gesture.

Again the lightning flashed—but this time upon a scene not wholly strange. It was Greenwich,

the Greenwich that used to be, with here and there a roof or row of houses as we see it now,

yet with lovely green lanes and fields and bits of grassy common. The marsh still glittered

beyond, but in the farther distance I saw the steeples of what was then all of New York; Trinity

and St. Paul‘s and the Brick Church dominating their sisters, and a faint haze of wood smoke

hovering over the whole. I breathed hard, but not so much from the sight itself as from the

possibilities my imagination terrifiedly conjured up.

―Can you—dare you—go far?” I spoke with awe, and I think he shared it for a second, but the

evil grin returned.

―Far? What I have seen would blast ye to a mad statue of stone! Back, back—forward,

forward—look, ye puling lack-wit!‖

And as he snarled the phrase under his breath he gestured anew; bringing to the sky a flash

more blinding than either which had come before. For full three seconds I could glimpse that

pandaemoniac sight, and in those seconds I saw a vista which will ever afterward torment me

in dreams. I saw the heavens verminous with strange flying things, and beneath them a

hellish black city of giant stone terraces with impious pyramids flung savagely to the moon,

and devil-lights burning from unnumbered windows. And swarming loathsomely on aërial

galleries I saw the yellow, squint-eyed people of that city, robed horribly in orange and red,

and dancing insanely to the pounding of fevered kettle-drums, the clatter of obscene crotala,

and the maniacal moaning of muted horns whose ceaseless dirges rose and fell undulantly

like the waves of an unhallowed ocean of bitumen.

I saw this vista, I say, and heard as with the mind‘s ear the blasphemous domdaniel of

cacophony which companioned it. It was the shrieking fulfilment of all the horror which that

corpse-city had ever stirred in my soul, and forgetting every injunction to silence I screamed

and screamed and screamed as my nerves gave way and the walls quivered about me.

Then, as the flash subsided, I saw that my host was trembling too; a look of shocking fear half

blotting from his face the serpent distortion of rage which my screams had excited. He

tottered, clutched at the curtains as I had done before, and wriggled his head wildly, like a

hunted animal. God knows he had cause, for as the echoes of my screaming died away there

came another sound so hellishly suggestive that only numbed emotion kept me sane and

conscious. It was the steady, stealthy creaking of the stairs beyond the locked door, as with

the ascent of a barefoot or skin-shod horde; and at last the cautious, purposeful rattling of the

brass latch that glowed in the feeble candlelight. The old man clawed and spat at me through

the mouldy air, and barked things in his throat as he swayed with the yellow curtain he

clutched.

―The full moon—damn ye—ye . . . ye yelping dog—ye called ‘em, and they‘ve come for me!

Moccasined feet—dead men—Gad sink ye, ye red devils, but I poisoned no rum o‘ yours—

han‘t I kept your pox-rotted magic safe?—ye swilled yourselves sick, curse ye, and ye must

needs blame the squire—let go, you! Unhand that latch—I‘ve naught for ye here—‖

At this point three slow and very deliberate raps shook the panels of the door, and a white

foam gathered at the mouth of the frantic magician. His fright, turning to steely despair, left

room for a resurgence of his rage against me; and he staggered a step toward the table on

whose edge I was steadying myself. The curtains, still clutched in his right hand as his left

clawed out at me, grew taut and finally crashed down from their lofty fastenings; admitting to

the room a flood of that full moonlight which the brightening of the sky had presaged. In those

greenish beams the candles paled, and a new semblance of decay spread over the musk-

reeking room with its wormy panelling, sagging floor, battered mantel, rickety furniture, and

ragged draperies. It spread over the old man, too, whether from the same source or because

of his fear and vehemence, and I saw him shrivel and blacken as he lurched near and strove

to rend me with vulturine talons. Only his eyes stayed whole, and they glared with a

propulsive, dilated incandescence which grew as the face around them charred and dwindled.

The rapping was now repeated with greater insistence, and this time bore a hint of metal. The

black thing facing me had become only a head with eyes, impotently trying to wriggle across

the sinking floor in my direction, and occasionally emitting feeble little spits of immortal malice.

Now swift and splintering blows assailed the sickly panels, and I saw the gleam of a

tomahawk as it cleft the rending wood. I did not move, for I could not; but watched dazedly as

the door fell in pieces to admit a colossal, shapeless influx of inky substance starred with

shining, malevolent eyes. It poured thickly, like a flood of oil bursting a rotten bulkhead,

overturned a chair as it spread, and finally flowed under the table and across the room to

where the blackened head with the eyes still glared at me. Around that head it closed, totally

swallowing it up, and in another moment it had begun to recede; bearing away its invisible

burden without touching me, and flowing again out of that black doorway and down the

unseen stairs, which creaked as before, though in reverse order.

Then the floor gave way at last, and I slid gaspingly down into the nighted chamber below,

choking with cobwebs and half swooning with terror. The green moon, shining through broken

windows, shewed me the hall door half open; and as I rose from the plaster-strown floor and

twisted myself free from the sagged ceilings, I saw sweep past it an awful torrent of

blackness, with scores of baleful eyes glowing in it. It was seeking the door to the cellar, and

when it found it, it vanished therein. I now felt the floor of this lower room giving as that of the

upper chamber had done, and once a crashing above had been followed by the fall past the

west window of something which must have been the cupola. Now liberated for the instant

from the wreckage, I rushed through the hall to the front door; and finding myself unable to

open it, seized a chair and broke a window, climbing frenziedly out upon the unkempt lawn

where moonlight danced over yard-high grass and weeds. The wall was high, and all the

gates were locked; but moving a pile of boxes in a corner I managed to gain the top and cling

to the great stone urn set there.

About me in my exhaustion I could see only strange walls and windows and old gambrel

roofs. The steep street of my approach was nowhere visible, and the little I did see

succumbed rapidly to a mist that rolled in from the river despite the glaring moonlight.

Suddenly the urn to which I clung began to tremble, as if sharing my own lethal dizziness; and

in another instant my body was plunging downward to I knew not what fate.

The man who found me said that I must have crawled a long way despite my broken bones,

for a trail of blood stretched off as far as he dared look. The gathering rain soon effaced this

link with the scene of my ordeal, and reports could state no more than that I had appeared

from a place unknown, at the entrance of a little black court off Perry Street.

In the Vault

(1925)

Dedicated to C. W. Smith, from whose suggestion the central situation is taken.

There is nothing more absurd, as I view it, than that conventional association of the homely

and the wholesome which seems to pervade the psychology of the multitude. Mention a

bucolic Yankee setting, a bungling and thick-fibred village undertaker, and a careless mishap

in a tomb, and no average reader can be brought to expect more than a hearty albeit

grotesque phase of comedy. God knows, though, that the prosy tale which George Birch‘s

death permits me to tell has in it aspects beside which some of our darkest tragedies are light.

Birch acquired a limitation and changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case

when he could avoid it. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. It was

generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch

had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping

only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true,

there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken

delirium toward the last. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he

probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. He was a bachelor,

wholly without relatives.

Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused

and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. The practices I heard attributed to him

would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a

bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the

ownership of costly ―laying-out‖ apparel invisible beneath the casket‘s lid, and the degree of

dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to

containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. Most distinctly Birch was lax,

insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. He was

merely crass of fibre and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily

avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average

citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

Just where to begin Birch‘s story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. I

suppose one should start in the cold December of 1880, when the ground froze and the

cemetery delvers found they could dig no more graves till spring. Fortunately the village was

small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch‘s inanimate charges a

temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The undertaker grew doubly

lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Never did

he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of

the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant

abandon.

At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent

harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. Birch, though dreading the bother of

removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but

ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having

laid but one mortal tenement to its permanent rest. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian,

whose grave was not far from the tomb. Birch decided that he would begin the next day with

little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter

for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. Being without superstition, he did

not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that

fateful sixth day of the week. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George

Birch.

On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon

to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently

admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to

forget certain things. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse,

which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as

on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. The day was clear, but a high wind had

sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the

side-hill vault. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight

carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in

getting the right coffin for the right grave. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when

Hannah Bixby‘s relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither

they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

The light was dim, but Birch‘s sight was good, and he did not get Asaph Sawyer‘s coffin by

mistake, although it was very similar. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner;

but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality

aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his

bankruptcy five years before. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was

thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a

malignant fever. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost

inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. To him Birch had

felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the

way in his quest for the Fenner casket.

It was just as he had recognised old Matt‘s coffin that the door slammed to in the wind,

leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. The narrow transom admitted only the

feeblest of rays, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was

reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the

latch. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and

wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. In this twilight, too, he

began to realise the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh

an unsympathetic reply. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the

careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight.

The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Birch, being by

temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for

some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb. It is doubtful whether he was

touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of

imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

His day‘s work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler

hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. The pile of tools soon reached, and a

hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. The air had begun to

be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by

feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. He would have given much for a lantern

or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might.

When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meagre tools

and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points

of escape. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the

top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Over

the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible

enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his

brains for means to reach it. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the coffin niches

on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the

space above the door. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones,

and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of arranging them. Three coffin-

heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four.

The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how

he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. As he planned, he

could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made.

Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of

two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. This arrangement could be

ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. Better still,

though, he would utilise only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one

free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. And

so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little

ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Several of the coffins

began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of

little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as

possible. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed

came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd

volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer.

The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on

the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast

of the narrow transom. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little

doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. As his hammer

blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging

and may have been mocking. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the

unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the

vanity of mortal hopes, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible

stimulus.

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered

clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his

encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. He could, he was sure, get out by

midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie

implications. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the company

beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a

fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that

pawed near the cypress tree. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in

it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. He would

not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was

on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom.

Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the

bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. The hungry

horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop.

He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for

his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. As he remounted the splitting coffins

he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard

that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He had, it seems,

planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full

bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface

which even he did not care to imagine. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which

billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a

neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it.

Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the enlarged

transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try. Clutching the edges of the aperture,

he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent

drag on both his ankles. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for

struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in

relentless captivity. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his

mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters,

loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Perhaps he screamed. At any

rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was

almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his

jarring thud on the damp ground. He could not walk, it appeared, and the emerging moon

must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery

lodge; his fingers clawing the black mould in brainless haste, and his body responding with

that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of

nightmare. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when

Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door.

Armington helped Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr.

Davis. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence;

merely muttering such things as ―oh, my ankles!‖, ―let go!‖, or ―shut in the tomb‖. Then the

doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient‘s

outer clothing, shoes, and socks. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated

about the Achilles‘ tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to

frighten him. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he

dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight

as quickly as possible.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis‘ ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very

strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his

horrible experience. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of

the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it

as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate

coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

Davis, an old-time village practitioner, had of course seen both at the respective funerals, as

indeed he had attended both Fenner and Sawyer in their last illnesses. He had even

wondered, at Sawyer‘s funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box

so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were

caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. What else, he added, could ever in any

case be proved or believed? But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no

other doctor treat the wounds. Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his

story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he

was wise in so doing. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but

I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and

logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain

chance allusions such as ―Friday‖, ―tomb‖, ―coffin‖, and words of less obvious concatenation.

His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. He changed

his business, but something always preyed upon him. It may have been just fear, and it may

have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. His drinking,

of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate.

When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving

tomb. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the

latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. Steeled by old ordeals in

dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body

that everything in sight and smell induced. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp

that was more terrible than a cry. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his

calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering

whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

―It was Asaph‘s coffin, Birch, just as I thought! I knew his teeth, with the front ones missing on

the upper jaw—never, for God‘s sake, shew those wounds! The body was pretty badly gone,

but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. . . . You know what a fiend he

was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how

he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August. . . . He was the devil

incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

God, what a rage! I‘d hate to have it aimed at me!

―Why did you do it, Birch? He was a scoundrel, and I don‘t blame you for giving him a cast-

aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far! Well enough to skimp on the thing some

way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

―I‘ll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. You kicked hard, for Asaph‘s coffin

was on the floor. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. I‘ve seen sights

before, but there was one thing too much here. An eye for an eye! Great heavens, Birch, but

you got what you deserved. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those

ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner’s cast-aside coffin!”

Return to Table of Contents

The Descendant

(1926)

In London there is a man who screams when the church bells ring. He lives all alone with his

streaked cat in Gray‘s Inn, and people call him harmlessly mad. His room is filled with books

of the tamest and most puerile kind, and hour after hour he tries to lose himself in their feeble

pages. All he seeks from life is not to think. For some reason thought is very horrible to him,

and anything which stirs the imagination he flees as a plague. He is very thin and grey and

wrinkled, but there are those who declare he is not nearly so old as he looks. Fear has its

grisly claws upon him, and a sound will make him start with staring eyes and sweat-beaded

forehead. Friends and companions he shuns, for he wishes to answer no questions. Those

who once knew him as scholar and aesthete say it is very pitiful to see him now. He dropped

them all years ago, and no one feels sure whether he left the country or merely sank from

sight in some hidden byway. It is a decade now since he moved into Gray‘s Inn, and of where

he had been he would say nothing till the night young Williams bought the Necronomicon.

Williams was a dreamer, and only twenty-three, and when he moved into the ancient house

he felt a strangeness and a breath of cosmic wind about the grey wizened man in the next

room. He forced his friendship where old friends dared not force theirs, and marvelled at the

fright that sat upon this gaunt, haggard watcher and listener. For that the man always watched

and listened no one could doubt. He watched and listened with his mind more than with his

eyes and ears, and strove every moment to drown something in his ceaseless poring over

gay, insipid novels. And when the church bells rang he would stop his ears and scream, and

the grey cat that dwelt with him would howl in unison till the last peal died reverberantly away.

But try as Williams would, he could not make his neighbour speak of anything profound or

hidden. The old man would not live up to his aspect and manner, but would feign a smile and

a light tone and prattle feverishly and frantically of cheerful trifles; his voice every moment

rising and thickening till at last it would split in a piping and incoherent falsetto. That his

learning was deep and thorough, his most trivial remarks made abundantly clear; and

Williams was not surprised to hear that he had been to Harrow and Oxford. Later it developed

that he was none other than Lord Northam, of whose ancient hereditary castle on the

Yorkshire coast so many odd things were told; but when Williams tried to talk of the castle,

and of its reputed Roman origin, he refused to admit that there was anything unusual about it.

He even tittered shrilly when the subject of the supposed under crypts, hewn out of the solid

crag that frowns on the North Sea, was brought up.

So matters went till that night when Williams brought home the infamous Necronomicon of the

mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. He had known of the dreaded volume since his sixteenth year,

when his dawning love of the bizarre had led him to ask queer questions of a bent old

bookseller in Chandos Street; and he had always wondered why men paled when they spoke

of it. The old bookseller had told him that only five copies were known to have survived the

shocked edicts of the priests and lawgivers against it and that all of these were locked up with

frightened care by custodians who had ventured to begin a reading of the hateful black-letter.

But now, at last, he had not only found an accessible copy but had made it his own at a

ludicrously low figure. It was at a Jew‘s shop in the squalid precincts of Clare Market, where

he had often bought strange things before, and he almost fancied the gnarled old Levite

smiled amidst tangles of beard as the great discovery was made. The bulky leather cover with

the brass clasp had been so prominently visible, and the price was so absurdly slight.

The one glimpse he had had of the title was enough to send him into transports, and some of

the diagrams set in the vague Latin text excited the tensest and most disquieting recollections

in his brain. He felt it was highly necessary to get the ponderous thing home and begin

deciphering it, and bore it out of the shop with such precipitate haste that the old Jew

chuckled disturbingly behind him. But when at last it was safe in his room he found the

combination of black-letter and debased idiom too much for his powers as a linguist, and

reluctantly called on his strange, frightened friend for help with the twisted, mediaeval Latin.

Lord Northam was simpering inanities to his streaked cat, and started violently when the

young man entered. Then he saw the volume and shuddered wildly, and fainted altogether

when Williams uttered the title. It was when he regained his senses that he told his story; told

his fantastic figment of madness in frantic whispers, lest his friend be not quick to burn the

accursed book and give wide scattering to its ashes.

* * *

There must, Lord Northam whispered, have been something wrong at the start; but it would

never have come to a head if he had not explored too far. He was the nineteenth Baron of a

line whose beginnings went uncomfortably far back into the past—unbelievably far, if vague

tradition could be heeded, for there were family tales of a descent from pre-Saxon times,

when a certain Cnaeus Gabinius Capito, military tribune in the Third Augustan Legion then

stationed at Lindum in Roman Britain, had been summarily expelled from his command for

participation in certain rites unconnected with any known religion. Gabinius had, the rumour

ran, come upon a cliffside cavern where strange folk met together and made the Elder Sign in

the dark; strange folk whom the Britons knew not save in fear, and who were the last to

survive from a great land in the west that had sunk, leaving only the islands with the raths and

circles and shrines of which Stonehenge was the greatest. There was no certainty, of course,

in the legend that Gabinius had built an impregnable fortress over the forbidden cave and

founded a line which Pict and Saxon, Dane and Norman were powerless to obliterate; or in

the tacit assumption that from this line sprang the bold companion and lieutenant of the Black

Prince whom Edward Third created Baron of Northam. These things were not certain, yet they

were often told; and in truth the stonework of Northam Keep did look alarmingly like the

masonry of Hadrian‘s Wall. As a child Lord Northam had had peculiar dreams when sleeping

in the older parts of the castle, and had acquired a constant habit of looking back through his

memory for half-amorphous scenes and patterns and impressions which formed no part of his

waking experience. He became a dreamer who found life tame and unsatisfying; a searcher

for strange realms and relationships once familiar, yet lying nowhere in the visible regions of

earth.

Filled with a feeling that our tangible world is only an atom in a fabric vast and ominous, and

that unknown demesnes press on and permeate the sphere of the known at every point,

Northam in youth and young manhood drained in turn the founts of formal religion and occult

mystery. Nowhere, however, could he find ease and content; and as he grew older the

staleness and limitations of life became more and more maddening to him. During the

‘nineties he dabbled in Satanism, and at all times he devoured avidly any doctrine or theory

which seemed to promise escape from the close vistas of science and the dully unvarying

laws of Nature. Books like Ignatius Donnelly‘s chimerical account of Atlantis he absorbed with

zest, and a dozen obscure precursors of Charles Fort enthralled him with their vagaries. He

would travel leagues to follow up a furtive village tale of abnormal wonder, and once went into

the desert of Araby to seek a Nameless City of faint report, which no man has ever beheld.

There rose within him the tantalising faith that somewhere an easy gate existed, which if one

Cool Air

(1926)

You ask me to explain why I am afraid of a draught of cool air; why I shiver more than others

upon entering a cold room, and seem nauseated and repelled when the chill of evening

creeps through the heat of a mild autumn day. There are those who say I respond to cold as

others do to a bad odour, and I am the last to deny the impression. What I will do is to relate

the most horrible circumstance I ever encountered, and leave it to you to judge whether or not

this forms a suitable explanation of my peculiarity.

It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and

solitude. I found it in the glare of mid-afternoon, in the clangour of a metropolis, and in the

teeming midst of a shabby and commonplace rooming-house with a prosaic landlady and two

stalwart men by my side. In the spring of 1923 I had secured some dreary and unprofitable

magazine work in the city of New York; and being unable to pay any substantial rent, began

drifting from one cheap boarding establishment to another in search of a room which might

combine the qualities of decent cleanliness, endurable furnishings, and very reasonable price.

It soon developed that I had only a choice between different evils, but after a time I came

upon a house in West Fourteenth Street which disgusted me much less than the others I had

sampled.

The place was a four-story mansion of brownstone, dating apparently from the late forties,

and fitted with woodwork and marble whose stained and sullied splendour argued a descent

from high levels of tasteful opulence. In the rooms, large and lofty, and decorated with

impossible paper and ridiculously ornate stucco cornices, there lingered a depressing

mustiness and hint of obscure cookery; but the floors were clean, the linen tolerably regular,

and the hot water not too often cold or turned off, so that I came to regard it as at least a

bearable place to hibernate till one might really live again. The landlady, a slatternly, almost

bearded Spanish woman named Herrero, did not annoy me with gossip or with criticisms of

the late-burning electric light in my third-floor front hall room; and my fellow-lodgers were as

quiet and uncommunicative as one might desire, being mostly Spaniards a little above the

coarsest and crudest grade. Only the din of street cars in the thoroughfare below proved a

serious annoyance.

I had been there about three weeks when the first odd incident occurred. One evening at

about eight I heard a spattering on the floor and became suddenly aware that I had been

smelling the pungent odour of ammonia for some time. Looking about, I saw that the ceiling

was wet and dripping; the soaking apparently proceeding from a corner on the side toward

the street. Anxious to stop the matter at its source, I hastened to the basement to tell the

landlady; and was assured by her that the trouble would quickly be set right.

―Doctair Muñoz,‖ she cried as she rushed upstairs ahead of me, ―he have speel hees

chemicals. He ees too seeck for doctair heemself—seecker and seecker all the time—but he

weel not have no othair for help. He ees vairy queer in hees seeckness—all day he take

funnee-smelling baths, and he cannot get excite or warm. All hees own housework he do—

hees leetle room are full of bottles and machines, and he do not work as doctair. But he was

great once—my fathair in Barcelona have hear of heem—and only joost now he feex a arm of

the plumber that get hurt of sudden. He nevair go out, only on roof, and my boy Esteban he

breeng heem hees food and laundry and mediceens and chemicals. My Gawd, the sal-

ammoniac that man use for keep heem cool!‖

Mrs. Herrero disappeared up the staircase to the fourth floor, and I returned to my room. The

ammonia ceased to drip, and as I cleaned up what had spilled and opened the window for air,

I heard the landlady‘s heavy footsteps above me. Dr. Muñoz I had never heard, save for

certain sounds as of some gasoline-driven mechanism; since his step was soft and gentle. I

wondered for a moment what the strange affliction of this man might be, and whether his

obstinate refusal of outside aid were not the result of a rather baseless eccentricity. There is, I

reflected tritely, an infinite deal of pathos in the state of an eminent person who has come

down in the world.

I might never have known Dr. Muñoz had it not been for the heart attack that suddenly seized

me one forenoon as I sat writing in my room. Physicians had told me of the danger of those

spells, and I knew there was no time to be lost; so remembering what the landlady had said

about the invalid‘s help of the injured workman, I dragged myself upstairs and knocked feebly

at the door above mine. My knock was answered in good English by a curious voice some

distance to the right, asking my name and business; and these things being stated, there

came an opening of the door next to the one I had sought.

A rush of cool air greeted me; and though the day was one of the hottest of late June, I

shivered as I crossed the threshold into a large apartment whose rich and tasteful decoration

surprised me in this nest of squalor and seediness. A folding couch now filled its diurnal role

of sofa, and the mahogany furniture, sumptuous hangings, old paintings, and mellow

bookshelves all bespoke a gentleman‘s study rather than a boarding-house bedroom. I now

saw that the hall room above mine—the ―leetle room‖ of bottles and machines which Mrs.

Herrero had mentioned—was merely the laboratory of the doctor; and that his main living

quarters lay in the spacious adjoining room whose convenient alcoves and large contiguous

bathroom permitted him to hide all dressers and obtrusive utilitarian devices. Dr. Muñoz, most

certainly, was a man of birth, cultivation, and discrimination.

The figure before me was short but exquisitely proportioned, and clad in somewhat formal

dress of perfect cut and fit. A high-bred face of masterful though not arrogant expression was

adorned by a short iron-grey full beard, and an old-fashioned pince-nez shielded the full, dark

eyes and surmounted an aquiline nose which gave a Moorish touch to a physiognomy

otherwise dominantly Celtiberian. Thick, well-trimmed hair that argued the punctual calls of a

barber was parted gracefully above a high forehead; and the whole picture was one of striking

intelligence and superior blood and breeding.

Nevertheless, as I saw Dr. Muñoz in that blast of cool air, I felt a repugnance which nothing in

his aspect could justify. Only his lividly inclined complexion and coldness of touch could have

afforded a physical basis for this feeling, and even these things should have been excusable

considering the man‘s known invalidism. It might, too, have been the singular cold that

alienated me; for such chilliness was abnormal on so hot a day, and the abnormal always

excites aversion, distrust, and fear.

But repugnance was soon forgotten in admiration, for the strange physician‘s extreme skill at

once became manifest despite the ice-coldness and shakiness of his bloodless-looking

hands. He clearly understood my needs at a glance, and ministered to them with a master‘s

deftness; the while reassuring me in a finely modulated though oddly hollow and timbreless

voice that he was the bitterest of sworn enemies to death, and had sunk his fortune and lost

all his friends in a lifetime of bizarre experiment devoted to its bafflement and extirpation.

Something of the benevolent fanatic seemed to reside in him, and he rambled on almost

garrulously as he sounded my chest and mixed a suitable draught of drugs fetched from the

smaller laboratory room. Evidently he found the society of a well-born man a rare novelty in

this dingy environment, and was moved to unaccustomed speech as memories of better days

surged over him.

His voice, if queer, was at least soothing; and I could not even perceive that he breathed as

the fluent sentences rolled urbanely out. He sought to distract my mind from my own seizure

by speaking of his theories and experiments; and I remember his tactfully consoling me about

my weak heart by insisting that will and consciousness are stronger than organic life itself, so

that if a bodily frame be but originally healthy and carefully preserved, it may through a

scientific enhancement of these qualities retain a kind of nervous animation despite the most

serious impairments, defects, or even absences in the battery of specific organs. He might, he

half jestingly said, some day teach me to live—or at least to possess some kind of conscious

existence—without any heart at all! For his part, he was afflicted with a complication of

maladies requiring a very exact regimen which included constant cold. Any marked rise in

temperature might, if prolonged, affect him fatally; and the frigidity of his habitation—some 55

or 56 degrees Fahrenheit—was maintained by an absorption system of ammonia cooling, the

gasoline engine of whose pumps I had often heard in my own room below.

Relieved of my seizure in a marvellously short while, I left the shivery place a disciple and

devotee of the gifted recluse. After that I paid him frequent overcoated calls; listening while he

told of secret researches and almost ghastly results, and trembling a bit when I examined the

unconventional and astonishingly ancient volumes on his shelves. I was eventually, I may

add, almost cured of my disease for all time by his skilful ministrations. It seems that he did

not scorn the incantations of the mediaevalists, since he believed these cryptic formulae to

contain rare psychological stimuli which might conceivably have singular effects on the

substance of a nervous system from which organic pulsations had fled. I was touched by his

account of the aged Dr. Torres of Valencia, who had shared his earlier experiments with him

through the great illness of eighteen years before, whence his present disorders proceeded.

No sooner had the venerable practitioner saved his colleague than he himself succumbed to

the grim enemy he had fought. Perhaps the strain had been too great; for Dr. Muñoz made it

whisperingly clear—though not in detail—that the methods of healing had been most

extraordinary, involving scenes and processes not welcomed by elderly and conservative

Galens.

As the weeks passed, I observed with regret that my new friend was indeed slowly but

unmistakably losing ground physically, as Mrs. Herrero had suggested. The livid aspect of his

countenance was intensified, his voice became more hollow and indistinct, his muscular

motions were less perfectly coördinated, and his mind and will displayed less resilience and

initiative. Of this sad change he seemed by no means unaware, and little by little his

expression and conversation both took on a gruesome irony which restored in me something

of the subtle repulsion I had originally felt.

He developed strange caprices, acquiring a fondness for exotic spices and Egyptian incense

till his room smelled like the vault of a sepulchred Pharaoh in the Valley of Kings. At the same

time his demands for cold air increased, and with my aid he amplified the ammonia piping of

his room and modified the pumps and feed of his refrigerating machine till he could keep the

temperature as low as 34° or 40° and finally even 28°; the bathroom and laboratory, of

course, being less chilled, in order that water might not freeze, and that chemical processes

might not be impeded. The tenant adjoining him complained of the icy air from around the

connecting door, so I helped him fit heavy hangings to obviate the difficulty. A kind of growing

horror, of outré and morbid cast, seemed to possess him. He talked of death incessantly, but

laughed hollowly when such things as burial or funeral arrangements were gently suggested.

All in all, he became a disconcerting and even gruesome companion; yet in my gratitude for

his healing I could not well abandon him to the strangers around him, and was careful to dust

his room and attend to his needs each day, muffled in a heavy ulster which I bought especially

for the purpose. I likewise did much of his shopping, and gasped in bafflement at some of the

chemicals he ordered from druggists and laboratory supply houses.

An increasing and unexplained atmosphere of panic seemed to rise around his apartment.

The whole house, as I have said, had a musty odour; but the smell in his room was worse—

and in spite of all the spices and incense, and the pungent chemicals of the now incessant

baths which he insisted on taking unaided. I perceived that it must be connected with his

ailment, and shuddered when I reflected on what that ailment might be. Mrs. Herrero crossed

herself when she looked at him, and gave him up unreservedly to me; not even letting her son

Esteban continue to run errands for him. When I suggested other physicians, the sufferer

would fly into as much of a rage as he seemed to dare to entertain. He evidently feared the

physical effect of violent emotion, yet his will and driving force waxed rather than waned, and

he refused to be confined to his bed. The lassitude of his earlier ill days gave place to a return

of his fiery purpose, so that he seemed about to hurl defiance at the death-daemon even as

that ancient enemy seized him. The pretence of eating, always curiously like a formality with

him, he virtually abandoned; and mental power alone appeared to keep him from total

collapse.

He acquired a habit of writing long documents of some sort, which he carefully sealed and

filled with injunctions that I transmit them after his death to certain persons whom he named—

for the most part lettered East Indians, but including a once celebrated French physician now

generally thought dead, and about whom the most inconceivable things had been whispered.

As it happened, I burned all these papers undelivered and unopened. His aspect and voice

became utterly frightful, and his presence almost unbearable. One September day an

unexpected glimpse of him induced an epileptic fit in a man who had come to repair his

electric desk lamp; a fit for which he prescribed effectively whilst keeping himself well out of

sight. That man, oddly enough, had been through the terrors of the Great War without having

incurred any fright so thorough.

Then, in the middle of October, the horror of horrors came with stupefying suddenness. One

night about eleven the pump of the refrigerating machine broke down, so that within three

hours the process of ammonia cooling became impossible. Dr. Muñoz summoned me by

thumping on the floor, and I worked desperately to repair the injury while my host cursed in a

tone whose lifeless, rattling hollowness surpassed description. My amateur efforts, however,

proved of no use; and when I had brought in a mechanic from a neighbouring all-night garage

we learned that nothing could be done till morning, when a new piston would have to be

obtained. The moribund hermit‘s rage and fear, swelling to grotesque proportions, seemed

likely to shatter what remained of his failing physique; and once a spasm caused him to clap

his hands to his eyes and rush into the bathroom. He groped his way out with face tightly

bandaged, and I never saw his eyes again.

The frigidity of the apartment was now sensibly diminishing, and at about 5 a.m. the doctor

retired to the bathroom, commanding me to keep him supplied with all the ice I could obtain at

all-night drug stores and cafeterias. As I would return from my sometimes discouraging trips

and lay my spoils before the closed bathroom door, I could hear a restless splashing within,

and a thick voice croaking out the order for ―More—more!‖ At length a warm day broke, and

the shops opened one by one. I asked Esteban either to help with the ice-fetching whilst I

obtained the pump piston, or to order the piston while I continued with the ice; but instructed

by his mother, he absolutely refused.

Finally I hired a seedy-looking loafer whom I encountered on the corner of Eighth Avenue to

keep the patient supplied with ice from a little shop where I introduced him, and applied

myself diligently to the task of finding a pump piston and engaging workmen competent to

install it. The task seemed interminable, and I raged almost as violently as the hermit when I

saw the hours slipping by in a breathless, foodless round of vain telephoning, and a hectic

quest from place to place, hither and thither by subway and surface car. About noon I

encountered a suitable supply house far downtown, and at approximately 1:30 p.m. arrived at

my boarding-place with the necessary paraphernalia and two sturdy and intelligent

mechanics. I had done all I could, and hoped I was in time.

Black terror, however, had preceded me. The house was in utter turmoil, and above the

chatter of awed voices I heard a man praying in a deep basso. Fiendish things were in the air,

and lodgers told over the beads of their rosaries as they caught the odour from beneath the

doctor‘s closed door. The lounger I had hired, it seems, had fled screaming and mad-eyed not

long after his second delivery of ice; perhaps as a result of excessive curiosity. He could not,

of course, have locked the door behind him; yet it was now fastened, presumably from the

inside. There was no sound within save a nameless sort of slow, thick dripping.

Briefly consulting with Mrs. Herrero and the workmen despite a fear that gnawed my inmost

soul, I advised the breaking down of the door; but the landlady found a way to turn the key

from the outside with some wire device. We had previously opened the doors of all the other

rooms on that hall, and flung all the windows to the very top. Now, noses protected by

handkerchiefs, we tremblingly invaded the accursed south room which blazed with the warm

sun of early afternoon.

A kind of dark, slimy trail led from the open bathroom door to the hall door, and thence to the

desk, where a terrible little pool had accumulated. Something was scrawled there in pencil in

an awful, blind hand on a piece of paper hideously smeared as though by the very claws that

traced the hurried last words. Then the trail led to the couch and ended unutterably.

What was, or had been, on the couch I cannot and dare not say here. But this is what I

shiveringly puzzled out on the stickily smeared paper before I drew a match and burned it to a

crisp; what I puzzled out in terror as the landlady and two mechanics rushed frantically from

that hellish place to babble their incoherent stories at the nearest police station. The

nauseous words seemed well-nigh incredible in that yellow sunlight, with the clatter of cars

and motor trucks ascending clamorously from crowded Fourteenth Street, yet I confess that I

believed them then. Whether I believe them now I honestly do not know. There are things

about which it is better not to speculate, and all that I can say is that I hate the smell of

ammonia, and grow faint at a draught of unusually cool air.

―The end,‖ ran that noisome scrawl, ―is here. No more ice—the man looked and ran away.

Warmer every minute, and the tissues can‘t last. I fancy you know—what I said about the will

and the nerves and the preserved body after the organs ceased to work. It was good theory,

but couldn‘t keep up indefinitely. There was a gradual deterioration I had not foreseen. Dr.

Torres knew, but the shock killed him. He couldn‘t stand what he had to do—he had to get me

in a strange, dark place when he minded my letter and nursed me back. And the organs never

would work again. It had to be done my way—artificial preservation—for you see I died that

time eighteen years ago.”

The Call of Cthulhu

(1926)

(Found Among the Papers of the Late Francis Wayland Thurston, of Boston)

―Of such great powers or beings there may be conceivably a survival . . . a survival

of a hugely remote period when . . . consciousness was manifested, perhaps, in

shapes and forms long since withdrawn before the tide of advancing humanity . . .

forms of which poetry and legend alone have caught a flying memory and called

them gods, monsters, mythical beings of all sorts and kinds. . . .‖

—Algernon Blackwood.

I. The Horror in Clay.

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all

its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it

was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction,

have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge

will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall

either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a

new dark age.

Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world

and human race form transient incidents. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms

which would freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that

there came the single glimpse of forbidden aeons which chills me when I think of it and

maddens me when I dream of it. That glimpse, like all dread glimpses of truth, flashed out

from an accidental piecing together of separated things—in this case an old newspaper item

and the notes of a dead professor. I hope that no one else will accomplish this piecing out;

certainly, if I live, I shall never knowingly supply a link in so hideous a chain. I think that the

professor, too, intended to keep silent regarding the part he knew, and that he would have

destroyed his notes had not sudden death seized him.

My knowledge of the thing began in the winter of 1926–27 with the death of my grand-uncle

George Gammell Angell, Professor Emeritus of Semitic Languages in Brown University,

Providence, Rhode Island. Professor Angell was widely known as an authority on ancient

inscriptions, and had frequently been resorted to by the heads of prominent museums; so that

his passing at the age of ninety-two may be recalled by many. Locally, interest was intensified

by the obscurity of the cause of death. The professor had been stricken whilst returning from

the Newport boat; falling suddenly, as witnesses said, after having been jostled by a nautical-

looking negro who had come from one of the queer dark courts on the precipitous hillside

which formed a short cut from the waterfront to the deceased‘s home in Williams Street.

Physicians were unable to find any visible disorder, but concluded after perplexed debate that

some obscure lesion of the heart, induced by the brisk ascent of so steep a hill by so elderly a

man, was responsible for the end. At the time I saw no reason to dissent from this dictum, but

latterly I am inclined to wonder—and more than wonder.

As my grand-uncle‘s heir and executor, for he died a childless widower, I was expected to go

over his papers with some thoroughness; and for that purpose moved his entire set of files

and boxes to my quarters in Boston. Much of the material which I correlated will be later

published by the American Archaeological Society, but there was one box which I found

exceedingly puzzling, and which I felt much averse from shewing to other eyes. It had been

locked, and I did not find the key till it occurred to me to examine the personal ring which the

professor carried always in his pocket. Then indeed I succeeded in opening it, but when I did

so seemed only to be confronted by a greater and more closely locked barrier. For what could

be the meaning of the queer clay bas-relief and the disjointed jottings, ramblings, and cuttings

which I found? Had my uncle, in his latter years, become credulous of the most superficial

impostures? I resolved to search out the eccentric sculptor responsible for this apparent

disturbance of an old man‘s peace of mind.

The bas-relief was a rough rectangle less than an inch thick and about five by six inches in

area; obviously of modern origin. Its designs, however, were far from modern in atmosphere

and suggestion; for although the vagaries of cubism and futurism are many and wild, they do

not often reproduce that cryptic regularity which lurks in prehistoric writing. And writing of

some kind the bulk of these designs seemed certainly to be; though my memory, despite

much familiarity with the papers and collections of my uncle, failed in any way to identify this

particular species, or even to hint at its remotest affiliations.

Above these apparent hieroglyphics was a figure of evidently pictorial intent, though its

impressionistic execution forbade a very clear idea of its nature. It seemed to be a sort of

monster, or symbol representing a monster, of a form which only a diseased fancy could

conceive. If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of

an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the

thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary

wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it most shockingly frightful.

Behind the figure was a vague suggestion of a Cyclopean architectural background.

The writing accompanying this oddity was, aside from a stack of press cuttings, in Professor

Angell‘s most recent hand; and made no pretence to literary style. What seemed to be the

main document was headed ―CTHULHU CULT‖ in characters painstakingly printed to avoid

the erroneous reading of a word so unheard-of. The manuscript was divided into two sections,

the first of which was headed ―1925—Dream and Dream Work of H. A. Wilcox, 7 Thomas St.,

Providence, R.I.‖, and the second, ―Narrative of Inspector John R. Legrasse, 121 Bienville St.,

New Orleans, La., at 1908 A. A. S. Mtg.—Notes on Same, & Prof. Webb‘s Acct.‖ The other

manuscript papers were all brief notes, some of them accounts of the queer dreams of

different persons, some of them citations from theosophical books and magazines (notably W.

Scott-Elliot‘s Atlantis and the Lost Lemuria), and the rest comments on long-surviving secret

societies and hidden cults, with references to passages in such mythological and

anthropological source-books as Frazer‘s Golden Bough and Miss Murray‘s Witch-Cult in

Western Europe. The cuttings largely alluded to outré mental illnesses and outbreaks of group

folly or mania in the spring of 1925.

The first half of the principal manuscript told a very peculiar tale. It appears that on March 1st,

1925, a thin, dark young man of neurotic and excited aspect had called upon Professor Angell

bearing the singular clay bas-relief, which was then exceedingly damp and fresh. His card

bore the name of Henry Anthony Wilcox, and my uncle had recognised him as the youngest

son of an excellent family slightly known to him, who had latterly been studying sculpture at

the Rhode Island School of Design and living alone at the Fleur-de-Lys Building near that

institution. Wilcox was a precocious youth of known genius but great eccentricity, and had

from childhood excited attention through the strange stories and odd dreams he was in the

habit of relating. He called himself ―psychically hypersensitive‖, but the staid folk of the ancient

commercial city dismissed him as merely ―queer‖. Never mingling much with his kind, he had

dropped gradually from social visibility, and was now known only to a small group of

aesthetes from other towns. Even the Providence Art Club, anxious to preserve its

conservatism, had found him quite hopeless.

On the occasion of the visit, ran the professor‘s manuscript, the sculptor abruptly asked for

the benefit of his host‘s archaeological knowledge in identifying the hieroglyphics on the bas-

relief. He spoke in a dreamy, stilted manner which suggested pose and alienated sympathy;

and my uncle shewed some sharpness in replying, for the conspicuous freshness of the tablet

implied kinship with anything but archaeology. Young Wilcox‘s rejoinder, which impressed my

uncle enough to make him recall and record it verbatim, was of a fantastically poetic cast

which must have typified his whole conversation, and which I have since found highly

characteristic of him. He said, ―It is new, indeed, for I made it last night in a dream of strange

cities; and dreams are older than brooding Tyre, or the contemplative Sphinx, or garden-

girdled Babylon.‖

It was then that he began that rambling tale which suddenly played upon a sleeping memory

and won the fevered interest of my uncle. There had been a slight earthquake tremor the

night before, the most considerable felt in New England for some years; and Wilcox‘s

imagination had been keenly affected. Upon retiring, he had had an unprecedented dream of

great Cyclopean cities of titan blocks and sky-flung monoliths, all dripping with green ooze

and sinister with latent horror. Hieroglyphics had covered the walls and pillars, and from some

undetermined point below had come a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which

only fancy could transmute into sound, but which he attempted to render by the almost

unpronounceable jumble of letters, ―Cthulhu fhtagn‖.

This verbal jumble was the key to the recollection which excited and disturbed Professor

Angell. He questioned the sculptor with scientific minuteness; and studied with almost frantic

intensity the bas-relief on which the youth had found himself working, chilled and clad only in

his night-clothes, when waking had stolen bewilderingly over him. My uncle blamed his old

age, Wilcox afterward said, for his slowness in recognising both hieroglyphics and pictorial

design. Many of his questions seemed highly out-of-place to his visitor, especially those which

tried to connect the latter with strange cults or societies; and Wilcox could not understand the

repeated promises of silence which he was offered in exchange for an admission of

membership in some widespread mystical or paganly religious body. When Professor Angell

became convinced that the sculptor was indeed ignorant of any cult or system of cryptic lore,

he besieged his visitor with demands for future reports of dreams. This bore regular fruit, for

after the first interview the manuscript records daily calls of the young man, during which he

related startling fragments of nocturnal imagery whose burden was always some terrible

Cyclopean vista of dark and dripping stone, with a subterrene voice or intelligence shouting

monotonously in enigmatical sense-impacts uninscribable save as gibberish. The two sounds

most frequently repeated are those rendered by the letters ―Cthulhu‖ and ―R’lyeh‖.

On March 23d, the manuscript continued, Wilcox failed to appear; and inquiries at his

quarters revealed that he had been stricken with an obscure sort of fever and taken to the

home of his family in Waterman Street. He had cried out in the night, arousing several other

artists in the building, and had manifested since then only alternations of unconsciousness

and delirium. My uncle at once telephoned the family, and from that time forward kept close

watch of the case; calling often at the Thayer Street office of Dr. Tobey, whom he learned to

be in charge. The youth‘s febrile mind, apparently, was dwelling on strange things; and the

doctor shuddered now and then as he spoke of them. They included not only a repetition of

what he had formerly dreamed, but touched wildly on a gigantic thing ―miles high‖ which

walked or lumbered about. He at no time fully described this object, but occasional frantic

words, as repeated by Dr. Tobey, convinced the professor that it must be identical with the

nameless monstrosity he had sought to depict in his dream-sculpture. Reference to this

object, the doctor added, was invariably a prelude to the young man‘s subsidence into

lethargy. His temperature, oddly enough, was not greatly above normal; but his whole

condition was otherwise such as to suggest true fever rather than mental disorder.

On April 2nd at about 3 p.m. every trace of Wilcox‘s malady suddenly ceased. He sat upright

in bed, astonished to find himself at home and completely ignorant of what had happened in

dream or reality since the night of March 22nd. Pronounced well by his physician, he returned

to his quarters in three days; but to Professor Angell he was of no further assistance. All

traces of strange dreaming had vanished with his recovery, and my uncle kept no record of

his night-thoughts after a week of pointless and irrelevant accounts of thoroughly usual

visions.

Here the first part of the manuscript ended, but references to certain of the scattered notes

gave me much material for thought—so much, in fact, that only the ingrained scepticism then

forming my philosophy can account for my continued distrust of the artist. The notes in

question were those descriptive of the dreams of various persons covering the same period

as that in which young Wilcox had had his strange visitations. My uncle, it seems, had quickly

instituted a prodigiously far-flung body of inquiries amongst nearly all the friends whom he

could question without impertinence, asking for nightly reports of their dreams, and the dates

of any notable visions for some time past. The reception of his request seems to have been

varied; but he must, at the very least, have received more responses than any ordinary man

could have handled without a secretary. This original correspondence was not preserved, but

his notes formed a thorough and really significant digest. Average people in society and

business—New England‘s traditional ―salt of the earth‖—gave an almost completely negative

result, though scattered cases of uneasy but formless nocturnal impressions appear here and

there, always between March 23d and April 2nd—the period of young Wilcox‘s delirium.

Scientific men were little more affected, though four cases of vague description suggest

fugitive glimpses of strange landscapes, and in one case there is mentioned a dread of

something abnormal.

It was from the artists and poets that the pertinent answers came, and I know that panic would

have broken loose had they been able to compare notes. As it was, lacking their original

letters, I half suspected the compiler of having asked leading questions, or of having edited

the correspondence in corroboration of what he had latently resolved to see. That is why I

continued to feel that Wilcox, somehow cognisant of the old data which my uncle had

possessed, had been imposing on the veteran scientist. These responses from aesthetes told

a disturbing tale. From February 28th to April 2nd a large proportion of them had dreamed

very bizarre things, the intensity of the dreams being immeasurably the stronger during the

period of the sculptor‘s delirium. Over a fourth of those who reported anything, reported

scenes and half-sounds not unlike those which Wilcox had described; and some of the

dreamers confessed acute fear of the gigantic nameless thing visible toward the last. One

case, which the note describes with emphasis, was very sad. The subject, a widely known

architect with leanings toward theosophy and occultism, went violently insane on the date of

young Wilcox‘s seizure, and expired several months later after incessant screamings to be

saved from some escaped denizen of hell. Had my uncle referred to these cases by name

instead of merely by number, I should have attempted some corroboration and personal

investigation; but as it was, I succeeded in tracing down only a few. All of these, however,

bore out the notes in full. I have often wondered if all the objects of the professor‘s

questioning felt as puzzled as did this fraction. It is well that no explanation shall ever reach

them.

The press cuttings, as I have intimated, touched on cases of panic, mania, and eccentricity

during the given period. Professor Angell must have employed a cutting bureau, for the

number of extracts was tremendous and the sources scattered throughout the globe. Here

was a nocturnal suicide in London, where a lone sleeper had leaped from a window after a

shocking cry. Here likewise a rambling letter to the editor of a paper in South America, where

a fanatic deduces a dire future from visions he has seen. A despatch from California

describes a theosophist colony as donning white robes en masse for some ―glorious

fulfilment‖ which never arrives, whilst items from India speak guardedly of serious native

unrest toward the end of March. Voodoo orgies multiply in Hayti, and African outposts report

ominous mutterings. American officers in the Philippines find certain tribes bothersome about

this time, and New York policemen are mobbed by hysterical Levantines on the night of March

22–23. The west of Ireland, too, is full of wild rumour and legendry, and a fantastic painter

named Ardois-Bonnot hangs a blasphemous ―Dream Landscape‖ in the Paris spring salon of

1926. And so numerous are the recorded troubles in insane asylums, that only a miracle can

have stopped the medical fraternity from noting strange parallelisms and drawing mystified

conclusions. A weird bunch of cuttings, all told; and I can at this date scarcely envisage the

callous rationalism with which I set them aside. But I was then convinced that young Wilcox

had known of the older matters mentioned by the professor.

II. The Tale of Inspector Legrasse.

The older matters which had made the sculptor‘s dream and bas-relief so significant to my

uncle formed the subject of the second half of his long manuscript. Once before, it appears,

Professor Angell had seen the hellish outlines of the nameless monstrosity, puzzled over the

unknown hieroglyphics, and heard the ominous syllables which can be rendered only as

―Cthulhu‖; and all this in so stirring and horrible a connexion that it is small wonder he pursued

young Wilcox with queries and demands for data.

The earlier experience had come in 1908, seventeen years before, when the American

Archaeological Society held its annual meeting in St. Louis. Professor Angell, as befitted one

of his authority and attainments, had had a prominent part in all the deliberations; and was

one of the first to be approached by the several outsiders who took advantage of the

convocation to offer questions for correct answering and problems for expert solution.

The chief of these outsiders, and in a short time the focus of interest for the entire meeting,

was a commonplace-looking middle-aged man who had travelled all the way from New

Orleans for certain special information unobtainable from any local source. His name was

John Raymond Legrasse, and he was by profession an Inspector of Police. With him he bore

the subject of his visit, a grotesque, repulsive, and apparently very ancient stone statuette

whose origin he was at a loss to determine. It must not be fancied that Inspector Legrasse

had the least interest in archaeology. On the contrary, his wish for enlightenment was

prompted by purely professional considerations. The statuette, idol, fetish, or whatever it was,

had been captured some months before in the wooded swamps south of New Orleans during

a raid on a supposed voodoo meeting; and so singular and hideous were the rites connected

with it, that the police could not but realise that they had stumbled on a dark cult totally

unknown to them, and infinitely more diabolic than even the blackest of the African voodoo

circles. Of its origin, apart from the erratic and unbelievable tales extorted from the captured

members, absolutely nothing was to be discovered; hence the anxiety of the police for any

antiquarian lore which might help them to place the frightful symbol, and through it track down

the cult to its fountain-head.

Inspector Legrasse was scarcely prepared for the sensation which his offering created. One

sight of the thing had been enough to throw the assembled men of science into a state of

tense excitement, and they lost no time in crowding around him to gaze at the diminutive

figure whose utter strangeness and air of genuinely abysmal antiquity hinted so potently at

unopened and archaic vistas. No recognised school of sculpture had animated this terrible

object, yet centuries and even thousands of years seemed recorded in its dim and greenish

surface of unplaceable stone.

The figure, which was finally passed slowly from man to man for close and careful study, was

between seven and eight inches in height, and of exquisitely artistic workmanship. It

represented a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose

face was a mass of feelers, a scaly, rubbery-looking body, prodigious claws on hind and fore

feet, and long, narrow wings behind. This thing, which seemed instinct with a fearsome and

unnatural malignancy, was of a somewhat bloated corpulence, and squatted evilly on a

rectangular block or pedestal covered with undecipherable characters. The tips of the wings

touched the back edge of the block, the seat occupied the centre, whilst the long, curved

claws of the doubled-up, crouching hind legs gripped the front edge and extended a quarter of

the way down toward the bottom of the pedestal. The cephalopod head was bent forward, so

that the ends of the facial feelers brushed the backs of huge fore paws which clasped the

croucher‘s elevated knees. The aspect of the whole was abnormally life-like, and the more

subtly fearful because its source was so totally unknown. Its vast, awesome, and incalculable

age was unmistakable; yet not one link did it shew with any known type of art belonging to

civilisation‘s youth—or indeed to any other time. Totally separate and apart, its very material

was a mystery; for the soapy, greenish-black stone with its golden or iridescent flecks and

striations resembled nothing familiar to geology or mineralogy. The characters along the base

were equally baffling; and no member present, despite a representation of half the world‘s

expert learning in this field, could form the least notion of even their remotest linguistic

kinship. They, like the subject and material, belonged to something horribly remote and

distinct from mankind as we know it; something frightfully suggestive of old and unhallowed

cycles of life in which our world and our conceptions have no part.

And yet, as the members severally shook their heads and confessed defeat at the Inspector‘s

problem, there was one man in that gathering who suspected a touch of bizarre familiarity in

the monstrous shape and writing, and who presently told with some diffidence of the odd trifle

he knew. This person was the late William Channing Webb, Professor of Anthropology in

Princeton University, and an explorer of no slight note. Professor Webb had been engaged,

forty-eight years before, in a tour of Greenland and Iceland in search of some Runic

inscriptions which he failed to unearth; and whilst high up on the West Greenland coast had

encountered a singular tribe or cult of degenerate Esquimaux whose religion, a curious form

of devil-worship, chilled him with its deliberate bloodthirstiness and repulsiveness. It was a

faith of which other Esquimaux knew little, and which they mentioned only with shudders,

saying that it had come down from horribly ancient aeons before ever the world was made.

Besides nameless rites and human sacrifices there were certain queer hereditary rituals

addressed to a supreme elder devil or tornasuk; and of this Professor Webb had taken a

careful phonetic copy from an aged angekok or wizard-priest, expressing the sounds in

Roman letters as best he knew how. But just now of prime significance was the fetish which

this cult had cherished, and around which they danced when the aurora leaped high over the

ice cliffs. It was, the professor stated, a very crude bas-relief of stone, comprising a hideous

picture and some cryptic writing. And so far as he could tell, it was a rough parallel in all

essential features of the bestial thing now lying before the meeting.

This data, received with suspense and astonishment by the assembled members, proved

doubly exciting to Inspector Legrasse; and he began at once to ply his informant with

questions. Having noted and copied an oral ritual among the swamp cult-worshippers his men

had arrested, he besought the professor to remember as best he might the syllables taken

down amongst the diabolist Esquimaux. There then followed an exhaustive comparison of

details, and a moment of really awed silence when both detective and scientist agreed on the

virtual identity of the phrase common to two hellish rituals so many worlds of distance apart.

What, in substance, both the Esquimau wizards and the Louisiana swamp-priests had

chanted to their kindred idols was something very like this—the word-divisions being guessed

at from traditional breaks in the phrase as chanted aloud:

―Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

Legrasse had one point in advance of Professor Webb, for several among his mongrel

prisoners had repeated to him what older celebrants had told them the words meant. This

text, as given, ran something like this:

―In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”

And now, in response to a general and urgent demand, Inspector Legrasse related as fully as

possible his experience with the swamp worshippers; telling a story to which I could see my

uncle attached profound significance. It savoured of the wildest dreams of myth-maker and

theosophist, and disclosed an astonishing degree of cosmic imagination among such half-

castes and pariahs as might be expected to possess it.

On November 1st, 1907, there had come to the New Orleans police a frantic summons from

the swamp and lagoon country to the south. The squatters there, mostly primitive but good-

natured descendants of Lafitte‘s men, were in the grip of stark terror from an unknown thing

which had stolen upon them in the night. It was voodoo, apparently, but voodoo of a more

terrible sort than they had ever known; and some of their women and children had

disappeared since the malevolent tom-tom had begun its incessant beating far within the

black haunted woods where no dweller ventured. There were insane shouts and harrowing

screams, soul-chilling chants and dancing devil-flames; and, the frightened messenger

added, the people could stand it no more.

So a body of twenty police, filling two carriages and an automobile, had set out in the late

afternoon with the shivering squatter as a guide. At the end of the passable road they

alighted, and for miles splashed on in silence through the terrible cypress woods where day

never came. Ugly roots and malignant hanging nooses of Spanish moss beset them, and now

and then a pile of dank stones or fragment of a rotting wall intensified by its hint of morbid

habitation a depression which every malformed tree and every fungous islet combined to

create. At length the squatter settlement, a miserable huddle of huts, hove in sight; and

hysterical dwellers ran out to cluster around the group of bobbing lanterns. The muffled beat

of tom-toms was now faintly audible far, far ahead; and a curdling shriek came at infrequent

intervals when the wind shifted. A reddish glare, too, seemed to filter through the pale

undergrowth beyond endless avenues of forest night. Reluctant even to be left alone again,

each one of the cowed squatters refused point-blank to advance another inch toward the

scene of unholy worship, so Inspector Legrasse and his nineteen colleagues plunged on

unguided into black arcades of horror that none of them had ever trod before.

The region now entered by the police was one of traditionally evil repute, substantially

unknown and untraversed by white men. There were legends of a hidden lake unglimpsed by

mortal sight, in which dwelt a huge, formless white polypous thing with luminous eyes; and

squatters whispered that bat-winged devils flew up out of caverns in inner earth to worship it

at midnight. They said it had been there before D‘Iberville, before La Salle, before the Indians,

and before even the wholesome beasts and birds of the woods. It was nightmare itself, and to

see it was to die. But it made men dream, and so they knew enough to keep away. The

present voodoo orgy was, indeed, on the merest fringe of this abhorred area, but that location

was bad enough; hence perhaps the very place of the worship had terrified the squatters

more than the shocking sounds and incidents.

Only poetry or madness could do justice to the noises heard by Legrasse‘s men as they

ploughed on through the black morass toward the red glare and the muffled tom-toms. There

are vocal qualities peculiar to men, and vocal qualities peculiar to beasts; and it is terrible to

hear the one when the source should yield the other. Animal fury and orgiastic licence here

whipped themselves to daemoniac heights by howls and squawking ecstasies that tore and

reverberated through those nighted woods like pestilential tempests from the gulfs of hell.

Now and then the less organised ululation would cease, and from what seemed a well-drilled

chorus of hoarse voices would rise in sing-song chant that hideous phrase or ritual:

―Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

Then the men, having reached a spot where the trees were thinner, came suddenly in sight of

the spectacle itself. Four of them reeled, one fainted, and two were shaken into a frantic cry

which the mad cacophony of the orgy fortunately deadened. Legrasse dashed swamp water

on the face of the fainting man, and all stood trembling and nearly hypnotised with horror.

In a natural glade of the swamp stood a grassy island of perhaps an acre‘s extent, clear of

trees and tolerably dry. On this now leaped and twisted a more indescribable horde of human

abnormality than any but a Sime or an Angarola could paint. Void of clothing, this hybrid

spawn were braying, bellowing, and writhing about a monstrous ring-shaped bonfire; in the

centre of which, revealed by occasional rifts in the curtain of flame, stood a great granite

monolith some eight feet in height; on top of which, incongruous with its diminutiveness,

rested the noxious carven statuette. From a wide circle of ten scaffolds set up at regular

intervals with the flame-girt monolith as a centre hung, head downward, the oddly marred

bodies of the helpless squatters who had disappeared. It was inside this circle that the ring of

worshippers jumped and roared, the general direction of the mass motion being from left to

right in endless Bacchanal between the ring of bodies and the ring of fire.

It may have been only imagination and it may have been only echoes which induced one of

the men, an excitable Spaniard, to fancy he heard antiphonal responses to the ritual from

some far and unillumined spot deeper within the wood of ancient legendry and horror. This

man, Joseph D. Galvez, I later met and questioned; and he proved distractingly imaginative.

He indeed went so far as to hint of the faint beating of great wings, and of a glimpse of shining

eyes and a mountainous white bulk beyond the remotest trees—but I suppose he had been

hearing too much native superstition.

Actually, the horrified pause of the men was of comparatively brief duration. Duty came first;

and although there must have been nearly a hundred mongrel celebrants in the throng, the

police relied on their firearms and plunged determinedly into the nauseous rout. For five

minutes the resultant din and chaos were beyond description. Wild blows were struck, shots

were fired, and escapes were made; but in the end Legrasse was able to count some forty-

seven sullen prisoners, whom he forced to dress in haste and fall into line between two rows

of policemen. Five of the worshippers lay dead, and two severely wounded ones were carried

away on improvised stretchers by their fellow-prisoners. The image on the monolith, of

course, was carefully removed and carried back by Legrasse.

Examined at headquarters after a trip of intense strain and weariness, the prisoners all proved

to be men of a very low, mixed-blooded, and mentally aberrant type. Most were seamen, and

a sprinkling of negroes and mulattoes, largely West Indians or Brava Portuguese from the

Cape Verde Islands, gave a colouring of voodooism to the heterogeneous cult. But before

many questions were asked, it became manifest that something far deeper and older than

negro fetichism was involved. Degraded and ignorant as they were, the creatures held with

surprising consistency to the central idea of their loathsome faith.

They worshipped, so they said, the Great Old Ones who lived ages before there were any

men, and who came to the young world out of the sky. Those Old Ones were gone now,

inside the earth and under the sea; but their dead bodies had told their secrets in dreams to

the first men, who formed a cult which had never died. This was that cult, and the prisoners

said it had always existed and always would exist, hidden in distant wastes and dark places

all over the world until the time when the great priest Cthulhu, from his dark house in the

mighty city of R‘lyeh under the waters, should rise and bring the earth again beneath his

sway. Some day he would call, when the stars were ready, and the secret cult would always

be waiting to liberate him.

Meanwhile no more must be told. There was a secret which even torture could not extract.

Mankind was not absolutely alone among the conscious things of earth, for shapes came out

of the dark to visit the faithful few. But these were not the Great Old Ones. No man had ever

seen the Old Ones. The carven idol was great Cthulhu, but none might say whether or not the

others were precisely like him. No one could read the old writing now, but things were told by

word of mouth. The chanted ritual was not the secret—that was never spoken aloud, only

whispered. The chant meant only this: ―In his house at R‘lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.‖

Only two of the prisoners were found sane enough to be hanged, and the rest were

committed to various institutions. All denied a part in the ritual murders, and averred that the

killing had been done by Black Winged Ones which had come to them from their immemorial

meeting-place in the haunted wood. But of those mysterious allies no coherent account could

ever be gained. What the police did extract, came mainly from an immensely aged mestizo

named Castro, who claimed to have sailed to strange ports and talked with undying leaders of

the cult in the mountains of China.

Old Castro remembered bits of hideous legend that paled the speculations of theosophists

and made man and the world seem recent and transient indeed. There had been aeons when

other Things ruled on the earth, and They had had great cities. Remains of Them, he said the

deathless Chinamen had told him, were still to be found as Cyclopean stones on islands in

the Pacific. They all died vast epochs of time before men came, but there were arts which

could revive Them when the stars had come round again to the right positions in the cycle of

eternity. They had, indeed, come themselves from the stars, and brought Their images with

Them.

These Great Old Ones, Castro continued, were not composed altogether of flesh and blood.

They had shape—for did not this star-fashioned image prove it?—but that shape was not

made of matter. When the stars were right, They could plunge from world to world through the

sky; but when the stars were wrong, They could not live. But although They no longer lived,

They would never really die. They all lay in stone houses in Their great city of R‘lyeh,

preserved by the spells of mighty Cthulhu for a glorious resurrection when the stars and the

earth might once more be ready for Them. But at that time some force from outside must

serve to liberate Their bodies. The spells that preserved Them intact likewise prevented Them

from making an initial move, and They could only lie awake in the dark and think whilst

uncounted millions of years rolled by. They knew all that was occurring in the universe, but

Their mode of speech was transmitted thought. Even now They talked in Their tombs. When,

after infinities of chaos, the first men came, the Great Old Ones spoke to the sensitive among

them by moulding their dreams; for only thus could Their language reach the fleshly minds of

mammals.

Then, whispered Castro, those first men formed the cult around small idols which the Great

Ones shewed them; idols brought in dim aeras from dark stars. That cult would never die till

the stars came right again, and the secret priests would take great Cthulhu from His tomb to

revive His subjects and resume His rule of earth. The time would be easy to know, for then

mankind would have become as the Great Old Ones; free and wild and beyond good and evil,

with laws and morals thrown aside and all men shouting and killing and revelling in joy. Then

the liberated Old Ones would teach them new ways to shout and kill and revel and enjoy

themselves, and all the earth would flame with a holocaust of ecstasy and freedom.

Meanwhile the cult, by appropriate rites, must keep alive the memory of those ancient ways

and shadow forth the prophecy of their return.

In the elder time chosen men had talked with the entombed Old Ones in dreams, but then

something had happened. The great stone city R‘lyeh, with its monoliths and sepulchres, had

sunk beneath the waves; and the deep waters, full of the one primal mystery through which

not even thought can pass, had cut off the spectral intercourse. But memory never died, and

high-priests said that the city would rise again when the stars were right. Then came out of

the earth the black spirits of earth, mouldy and shadowy, and full of dim rumours picked up in

caverns beneath forgotten sea-bottoms. But of them old Castro dared not speak much. He cut

himself off hurriedly, and no amount of persuasion or subtlety could elicit more in this

direction. The size of the Old Ones, too, he curiously declined to mention. Of the cult, he said

that he thought the centre lay amid the pathless deserts of Arabia, where Irem, the City of

Pillars, dreams hidden and untouched. It was not allied to the European witch-cult, and was

virtually unknown beyond its members. No book had ever really hinted of it, though the

deathless Chinamen said that there were double meanings in the Necronomicon of the mad

Arab Abdul Alhazred which the initiated might read as they chose, especially the much-

discussed couplet:

That is not dead which can eternal lie,

And with strange aeons even death may die.‖

Legrasse, deeply impressed and not a little bewildered, had inquired in vain concerning the

historic affiliations of the cult. Castro, apparently, had told the truth when he said that it was

wholly secret. The authorities at Tulane University could shed no light upon either cult or

image, and now the detective had come to the highest authorities in the country and met with

no more than the Greenland tale of Professor Webb.

The feverish interest aroused at the meeting by Legrasse‘s tale, corroborated as it was by the

statuette, is echoed in the subsequent correspondence of those who attended; although scant

mention occurs in the formal publications of the society. Caution is the first care of those

accustomed to face occasional charlatanry and imposture. Legrasse for some time lent the

image to Professor Webb, but at the latter‘s death it was returned to him and remains in his

possession, where I viewed it not long ago. It is truly a terrible thing, and unmistakably akin to

the dream-sculpture of young Wilcox.

That my uncle was excited by the tale of the sculptor I did not wonder, for what thoughts must

arise upon hearing, after a knowledge of what Legrasse had learned of the cult, of a sensitive

young man who had dreamed not only the figure and exact hieroglyphics of the swamp-found

image and the Greenland devil tablet, but had come in his dreams upon at least three of the

precise words of the formula uttered alike by Esquimau diabolists and mongrel Louisianans?

Professor Angell‘s instant start on an investigation of the utmost thoroughness was eminently

natural; though privately I suspected young Wilcox of having heard of the cult in some indirect

way, and of having invented a series of dreams to heighten and continue the mystery at my

uncle‘s expense. The dream-narratives and cuttings collected by the professor were, of

course, strong corroboration; but the rationalism of my mind and the extravagance of the

whole subject led me to adopt what I thought the most sensible conclusions. So, after

thoroughly studying the manuscript again and correlating the theosophical and

anthropological notes with the cult narrative of Legrasse, I made a trip to Providence to see

the sculptor and give him the rebuke I thought proper for so boldly imposing upon a learned

and aged man.

Wilcox still lived alone in the Fleur-de-Lys Building in Thomas Street, a hideous Victorian

imitation of seventeenth-century Breton architecture which flaunts its stuccoed front amidst

the lovely colonial houses on the ancient hill, and under the very shadow of the finest

Georgian steeple in America. I found him at work in his rooms, and at once conceded from

the specimens scattered about that his genius is indeed profound and authentic. He will, I

believe, some time be heard from as one of the great decadents; for he has crystallised in

clay and will one day mirror in marble those nightmares and phantasies which Arthur Machen

evokes in prose, and Clark Ashton Smith makes visible in verse and in painting.

Dark, frail, and somewhat unkempt in aspect, he turned languidly at my knock and asked me

my business without rising. When I told him who I was, he displayed some interest; for my

uncle had excited his curiosity in probing his strange dreams, yet had never explained the

reason for the study. I did not enlarge his knowledge in this regard, but sought with some

subtlety to draw him out. In a short time I became convinced of his absolute sincerity, for he

spoke of the dreams in a manner none could mistake. They and their subconscious residuum

had influenced his art profoundly, and he shewed me a morbid statue whose contours almost

made me shake with the potency of its black suggestion. He could not recall having seen the

original of this thing except in his own dream bas-relief, but the outlines had formed

themselves insensibly under his hands. It was, no doubt, the giant shape he had raved of in

delirium. That he really knew nothing of the hidden cult, save from what my uncle‘s relentless

catechism had let fall, he soon made clear; and again I strove to think of some way in which

he could possibly have received the weird impressions.

He talked of his dreams in a strangely poetic fashion; making me see with terrible vividness

the damp Cyclopean city of slimy green stone—whose geometry, he oddly said, was all

wrong—and hear with frightened expectancy the ceaseless, half-mental calling from

underground: ―Cthulhu fhtagn‖, ―Cthulhu fhtagn‖. These words had formed part of that dread

ritual which told of dead Cthulhu‘s dream-vigil in his stone vault at R‘lyeh, and I felt deeply

moved despite my rational beliefs. Wilcox, I was sure, had heard of the cult in some casual

way, and had soon forgotten it amidst the mass of his equally weird reading and imagining.

Later, by virtue of its sheer impressiveness, it had found subconscious expression in dreams,

in the bas-relief, and in the terrible statue I now beheld; so that his imposture upon my uncle

had been a very innocent one. The youth was of a type, at once slightly affected and slightly

ill-mannered, which I could never like; but I was willing enough now to admit both his genius

and his honesty. I took leave of him amicably, and wish him all the success his talent

promises.

The matter of the cult still remained to fascinate me, and at times I had visions of personal

fame from researches into its origin and connexions. I visited New Orleans, talked with

Legrasse and others of that old-time raiding-party, saw the frightful image, and even

questioned such of the mongrel prisoners as still survived. Old Castro, unfortunately, had

been dead for some years. What I now heard so graphically at first-hand, though it was really

no more than a detailed confirmation of what my uncle had written, excited me afresh; for I felt

sure that I was on the track of a very real, very secret, and very ancient religion whose

discovery would make me an anthropologist of note. My attitude was still one of absolute

materialism, as I wish it still were, and I discounted with almost inexplicable perversity the

coincidence of the dream notes and odd cuttings collected by Professor Angell.

One thing I began to suspect, and which I now fear I know, is that my uncle‘s death was far

from natural. He fell on a narrow hill street leading up from an ancient waterfront swarming

with foreign mongrels, after a careless push from a negro sailor. I did not forget the mixed

blood and marine pursuits of the cult-members in Louisiana, and would not be surprised to

learn of secret methods and poison needles as ruthless and as anciently known as the cryptic

rites and beliefs. Legrasse and his men, it is true, have been let alone; but in Norway a certain

seaman who saw things is dead. Might not the deeper inquiries of my uncle after

encountering the sculptor‘s data have come to sinister ears? I think Professor Angell died

because he knew too much, or because he was likely to learn too much. Whether I shall go

as he did remains to be seen, for I have learned much now.

III. The Madness from the Sea.

If heaven ever wishes to grant me a boon, it will be a total effacing of the results of a mere

chance which fixed my eye on a certain stray piece of shelf-paper. It was nothing on which I

would naturally have stumbled in the course of my daily round, for it was an old number of an

Australian journal, the Sydney Bulletin for April 18, 1925. It had escaped even the cutting

bureau which had at the time of its issuance been avidly collecting material for my uncle‘s

research.

I had largely given over my inquiries into what Professor Angell called the ―Cthulhu Cult‖, and

was visiting a learned friend in Paterson, New Jersey; the curator of a local museum and a

mineralogist of note. Examining one day the reserve specimens roughly set on the storage

shelves in a rear room of the museum, my eye was caught by an odd picture in one of the old

papers spread beneath the stones. It was the Sydney Bulletin I have mentioned, for my friend

has wide affiliations in all conceivable foreign parts; and the picture was a half-tone cut of a

hideous stone image almost identical with that which Legrasse had found in the swamp.

Eagerly clearing the sheet of its precious contents, I scanned the item in detail; and was

disappointed to find it of only moderate length. What it suggested, however, was of portentous

significance to my flagging quest; and I carefully tore it out for immediate action. It read as

follows:

MYSTERY DERELICT FOUND AT SEA. Vigilant Arrives With Helpless Armed New

Zealand Yacht in Tow. One Survivor and Dead Man Found Aboard. Tale of

Desperate Battle and Deaths at Sea. Rescued Seaman Refuses Particulars of

Strange Experience. Odd Idol Found in His Possession. Inquiry to Follow.

The Morrison Co.‘s freighter Vigilant, bound from Valparaiso, arrived this morning at its wharf

in Darling Harbour, having in tow the battled and disabled but heavily armed steam yacht Alert

of Dunedin, N. Z., which was sighted April 12th in S. Latitude 34° 21', W. Longitude 152° 17'

with one living and one dead man aboard.

The Vigilant left Valparaiso March 25th, and on April 2nd was driven considerably south of her

course by exceptionally heavy storms and monster waves. On April 12th the derelict was

sighted; and though apparently deserted, was found upon boarding to contain one survivor in

a half-delirious condition and one man who had evidently been dead for more than a week.

The living man was clutching a horrible stone idol of unknown origin, about a foot in height,

regarding whose nature authorities at Sydney University, the Royal Society, and the Museum

in College Street all profess complete bafflement, and which the survivor says he found in the

cabin of the yacht, in a small carved shrine of common pattern.

This man, after recovering his senses, told an exceedingly strange story of piracy and

slaughter. He is Gustaf Johansen, a Norwegian of some intelligence, and had been second

mate of the two-masted schooner Emma of Auckland, which sailed for Callao February 20th

with a complement of eleven men. The Emma, he says, was delayed and thrown widely south

of her course by the great storm of March 1st, and on March 22nd, in S. Latitude 49° 51', W.

Longitude 128° 34', encountered the Alert, manned by a queer and evil-looking crew of

Kanakas and half-castes. Being ordered peremptorily to turn back, Capt. Collins refused;

whereupon the strange crew began to fire savagely and without warning upon the schooner

with a peculiarly heavy battery of brass cannon forming part of the yacht‘s equipment. The

Emma‘s men shewed fight, says the survivor, and though the schooner began to sink from

shots beneath the waterline they managed to heave alongside their enemy and board her,

grappling with the savage crew on the yacht‘s deck, and being forced to kill them all, the

number being slightly superior, because of their particularly abhorrent and desperate though

rather clumsy mode of fighting.

Three of the Emma‘s men, including Capt. Collins and First Mate Green, were killed; and the

remaining eight under Second Mate Johansen proceeded to navigate the captured yacht,

going ahead in their original direction to see if any reason for their ordering back had existed.

The next day, it appears, they raised and landed on a small island, although none is known to

exist in that part of the ocean; and six of the men somehow died ashore, though Johansen is

queerly reticent about this part of his story, and speaks only of their falling into a rock chasm.

Later, it seems, he and one companion boarded the yacht and tried to manage her, but were

beaten about by the storm of April 2nd. From that time till his rescue on the 12th the man

remembers little, and he does not even recall when William Briden, his companion, died.

Briden‘s death reveals no apparent cause, and was probably due to excitement or exposure.

Cable advices from Dunedin report that the Alert was well known there as an island trader,

and bore an evil reputation along the waterfront. It was owned by a curious group of half-

castes whose frequent meetings and night trips to the woods attracted no little curiosity; and it

had set sail in great haste just after the storm and earth tremors of March 1st. Our Auckland

correspondent gives the Emma and her crew an excellent reputation, and Johansen is

described as a sober and worthy man. The admiralty will institute an inquiry on the whole

matter beginning tomorrow, at which every effort will be made to induce Johansen to speak

more freely than he has done hitherto.

This was all, together with the picture of the hellish image; but what a train of ideas it started

in my mind! Here were new treasuries of data on the Cthulhu Cult, and evidence that it had

strange interests at sea as well as on land. What motive prompted the hybrid crew to order

back the Emma as they sailed about with their hideous idol? What was the unknown island on

which six of the Emma‘s crew had died, and about which the mate Johansen was so

secretive? What had the vice-admiralty‘s investigation brought out, and what was known of

the noxious cult in Dunedin? And most marvellous of all, what deep and more than natural

linkage of dates was this which gave a malign and now undeniable significance to the various

turns of events so carefully noted by my uncle?

March 1st—our February 28th according to the International Date Line—the earthquake and

storm had come. From Dunedin the Alert and her noisome crew had darted eagerly forth as if

imperiously summoned, and on the other side of the earth poets and artists had begun to

dream of a strange, dank Cyclopean city whilst a young sculptor had moulded in his sleep the

form of the dreaded Cthulhu. March 23d the crew of the Emma landed on an unknown island

and left six men dead; and on that date the dreams of sensitive men assumed a heightened

vividness and darkened with dread of a giant monster‘s malign pursuit, whilst an architect had

gone mad and a sculptor had lapsed suddenly into delirium! And what of this storm of April

2nd—the date on which all dreams of the dank city ceased, and Wilcox emerged unharmed

from the bondage of strange fever? What of all this—and of those hints of old Castro about

the sunken, star-born Old Ones and their coming reign; their faithful cult and their mastery of

dreams? Was I tottering on the brink of cosmic horrors beyond man‘s power to bear? If so,

they must be horrors of the mind alone, for in some way the second of April had put a stop to

whatever monstrous menace had begun its siege of mankind‘s soul.

That evening, after a day of hurried cabling and arranging, I bade my host adieu and took a

train for San Francisco. In less than a month I was in Dunedin; where, however, I found that

little was known of the strange cult-members who had lingered in the old sea-taverns.

Waterfront scum was far too common for special mention; though there was vague talk about

one inland trip these mongrels had made, during which faint drumming and red flame were

noted on the distant hills. In Auckland I learned that Johansen had returned with yellow hair

turned white after a perfunctory and inconclusive questioning at Sydney, and had thereafter

sold his cottage in West Street and sailed with his wife to his old home in Oslo. Of his stirring

experience he would tell his friends no more than he had told the admiralty officials, and all

they could do was to give me his Oslo address.

After that I went to Sydney and talked profitlessly with seamen and members of the vice-

admiralty court. I saw the Alert, now sold and in commercial use, at Circular Quay in Sydney

Cove, but gained nothing from its non-committal bulk. The crouching image with its cuttlefish

head, dragon body, scaly wings, and hieroglyphed pedestal, was preserved in the Museum at

Hyde Park; and I studied it long and well, finding it a thing of balefully exquisite workmanship,

and with the same utter mystery, terrible antiquity, and unearthly strangeness of material

which I had noted in Legrasse‘s smaller specimen. Geologists, the curator told me, had found

it a monstrous puzzle; for they vowed that the world held no rock like it. Then I thought with a

shudder of what old Castro had told Legrasse about the primal Great Ones: ―They had come

from the stars, and had brought Their images with Them.‖

Shaken with such a mental revolution as I had never before known, I now resolved to visit

Mate Johansen in Oslo. Sailing for London, I reëmbarked at once for the Norwegian capital;

and one autumn day landed at the trim wharves in the shadow of the Egeberg. Johansen‘s

address, I discovered, lay in the Old Town of King Harold Haardrada, which kept alive the

name of Oslo during all the centuries that the greater city masqueraded as ―Christiana‖. I

made the brief trip by taxicab, and knocked with palpitant heart at the door of a neat and

ancient building with plastered front. A sad-faced woman in black answered my summons,

and I was stung with disappointment when she told me in halting English that Gustaf

Johansen was no more.

He had not survived his return, said his wife, for the doings at sea in 1925 had broken him. He

had told her no more than he had told the public, but had left a long manuscript—of ―technical

matters‖ as he said—written in English, evidently in order to safeguard her from the peril of

casual perusal. During a walk through a narrow lane near the Gothenburg dock, a bundle of

papers falling from an attic window had knocked him down. Two Lascar sailors at once helped

him to his feet, but before the ambulance could reach him he was dead. Physicians found no

adequate cause for the end, and laid it to heart trouble and a weakened constitution.

I now felt gnawing at my vitals that dark terror which will never leave me till I, too, am at rest;

―accidentally‖ or otherwise. Persuading the widow that my connexion with her husband‘s

―technical matters‖ was sufficient to entitle me to his manuscript, I bore the document away

and began to read it on the London boat. It was a simple, rambling thing—a naive sailor‘s

effort at a post-facto diary—and strove to recall day by day that last awful voyage. I cannot

attempt to transcribe it verbatim in all its cloudiness and redundance, but I will tell its gist

enough to shew why the sound of the water against the vessel‘s sides became so

unendurable to me that I stopped my ears with cotton.

Johansen, thank God, did not know quite all, even though he saw the city and the Thing, but I

shall never sleep calmly again when I think of the horrors that lurk ceaselessly behind life in

time and in space, and of those unhallowed blasphemies from elder stars which dream

beneath the sea, known and favoured by a nightmare cult ready and eager to loose them on

the world whenever another earthquake shall heave their monstrous stone city again to the

sun and air.

Johansen‘s voyage had begun just as he told it to the vice-admiralty. The Emma, in ballast,

had cleared Auckland on February 20th, and had felt the full force of that earthquake-born

tempest which must have heaved up from the sea-bottom the horrors that filled men‘s

dreams. Once more under control, the ship was making good progress when held up by the

Alert on March 22nd, and I could feel the mate‘s regret as he wrote of her bombardment and

sinking. Of the swarthy cult-fiends on the Alert he speaks with significant horror. There was

some peculiarly abominable quality about them which made their destruction seem almost a

duty, and Johansen shews ingenuous wonder at the charge of ruthlessness brought against

his party during the proceedings of the court of inquiry. Then, driven ahead by curiosity in their

captured yacht under Johansen‘s command, the men sight a great stone pillar sticking out of

the sea, and in S. Latitude 47° 9', W. Longitude 126° 43' come upon a coast-line of mingled

mud, ooze, and weedy Cyclopean masonry which can be nothing less than the tangible

substance of earth‘s supreme terror—the nightmare corpse-city of R‘lyeh, that was built in

measureless aeons behind history by the vast, loathsome shapes that seeped down from the

dark stars. There lay great Cthulhu and his hordes, hidden in green slimy vaults and sending

out at last, after cycles incalculable, the thoughts that spread fear to the dreams of the

sensitive and called imperiously to the faithful to come on a pilgrimage of liberation and

restoration. All this Johansen did not suspect, but God knows he soon saw enough!

I suppose that only a single mountain-top, the hideous monolith-crowned citadel whereon

great Cthulhu was buried, actually emerged from the waters. When I think of the extent of all

that may be brooding down there I almost wish to kill myself forthwith. Johansen and his men

were awed by the cosmic majesty of this dripping Babylon of elder daemons, and must have

guessed without guidance that it was nothing of this or of any sane planet. Awe at the

unbelievable size of the greenish stone blocks, at the dizzying height of the great carven

monolith, and at the stupefying identity of the colossal statues and bas-reliefs with the queer

image found in the shrine on the Alert, is poignantly visible in every line of the mate‘s

frightened description.

Without knowing what futurism is like, Johansen achieved something very close to it when he

spoke of the city; for instead of describing any definite structure or building, he dwells only on

broad impressions of vast angles and stone surfaces—surfaces too great to belong to any

thing right or proper for this earth, and impious with horrible images and hieroglyphs. I

mention his talk about angles because it suggests something Wilcox had told me of his awful

dreams. He had said that the geometry of the dream-place he saw was abnormal, non-

Euclidean, and loathsomely redolent of spheres and dimensions apart from ours. Now an

unlettered seaman felt the same thing whilst gazing at the terrible reality.

Johansen and his men landed at a sloping mud-bank on this monstrous Acropolis, and

clambered slipperily up over titan oozy blocks which could have been no mortal staircase. The

very sun of heaven seemed distorted when viewed through the polarising miasma welling out

from this sea-soaked perversion, and twisted menace and suspense lurked leeringly in those

crazily elusive angles of carven rock where a second glance shewed concavity after the first

shewed convexity.

Something very like fright had come over all the explorers before anything more definite than

rock and ooze and weed was seen. Each would have fled had he not feared the scorn of the

others, and it was only half-heartedly that they searched—vainly, as it proved—for some

portable souvenir to bear away.

It was Rodriguez the Portuguese who climbed up the foot of the monolith and shouted of what

he had found. The rest followed him, and looked curiously at the immense carved door with

the now familiar squid-dragon bas-relief. It was, Johansen said, like a great barn-door; and

they all felt that it was a door because of the ornate lintel, threshold, and jambs around it,

though they could not decide whether it lay flat like a trap-door or slantwise like an outside

cellar-door. As Wilcox would have said, the geometry of the place was all wrong. One could

not be sure that the sea and the ground were horizontal, hence the relative position of

everything else seemed phantasmally variable.

Briden pushed at the stone in several places without result. Then Donovan felt over it

delicately around the edge, pressing each point separately as he went. He climbed

interminably along the grotesque stone moulding—that is, one would call it climbing if the

thing was not after all horizontal—and the men wondered how any door in the universe could

be so vast. Then, very softly and slowly, the acre-great panel began to give inward at the top;

and they saw that it was balanced. Donovan slid or somehow propelled himself down or along

the jamb and rejoined his fellows, and everyone watched the queer recession of the

monstrously carven portal. In this phantasy of prismatic distortion it moved anomalously in a

diagonal way, so that all the rules of matter and perspective seemed upset.

The aperture was black with a darkness almost material. That tenebrousness was indeed a

positive quality; for it obscured such parts of the inner walls as ought to have been revealed,

and actually burst forth like smoke from its aeon-long imprisonment, visibly darkening the sun

as it slunk away into the shrunken and gibbous sky on flapping membraneous wings. The

odour arising from the newly opened depths was intolerable, and at length the quick-eared

Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down there. Everyone listened, and

everyone was listening still when It lumbered slobberingly into sight and gropingly squeezed

Its gelatinous green immensity through the black doorway into the tainted outside air of that

poison city of madness.

Poor Johansen‘s handwriting almost gave out when he wrote of this. Of the six men who

never reached the ship, he thinks two perished of pure fright in that accursed instant. The

Thing cannot be described—there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and

immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A

mountain walked or stumbled. God! What wonder that across the earth a great architect went

mad, and poor Wilcox raved with fever in that telepathic instant? The Thing of the idols, the

green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own. The stars were right again,

and what an age-old cult had failed to do by design, a band of innocent sailors had done by

accident. After vigintillions of years great Cthulhu was loose again, and ravening for delight.

Three men were swept up by the flabby claws before anybody turned. God rest them, if there

be any rest in the universe. They were Donovan, Guerrera, and Ångstrom. Parker slipped as

the other three were plunging frenziedly over endless vistas of green-crusted rock to the boat,

and Johansen swears he was swallowed up by an angle of masonry which shouldn‘t have

been there; an angle which was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse. So only Briden and

Johansen reached the boat, and pulled desperately for the Alert as the mountainous

monstrosity flopped down the slimy stones and hesitated floundering at the edge of the water.

Steam had not been suffered to go down entirely, despite the departure of all hands for the

shore; and it was the work of only a few moments of feverish rushing up and down between

wheel and engines to get the Alert under way. Slowly, amidst the distorted horrors of that

indescribable scene, she began to churn the lethal waters; whilst on the masonry of that

charnel shore that was not of earth the titan Thing from the stars slavered and gibbered like

Polypheme cursing the fleeing ship of Odysseus. Then, bolder than the storied Cyclops, great

Cthulhu slid greasily into the water and began to pursue with vast wave-raising strokes of

cosmic potency. Briden looked back and went mad, laughing shrilly as he kept on laughing at

intervals till death found him one night in the cabin whilst Johansen was wandering deliriously.

But Johansen had not given out yet. Knowing that the Thing could surely overtake the Alert

until steam was fully up, he resolved on a desperate chance; and, setting the engine for full

speed, ran lightning-like on deck and reversed the wheel. There was a mighty eddying and

foaming in the noisome brine, and as the steam mounted higher and higher the brave

Norwegian drove his vessel head on against the pursuing jelly which rose above the unclean

froth like the stern of a daemon galleon. The awful squid-head with writhing feelers came

nearly up to the bowsprit of the sturdy yacht, but Johansen drove on relentlessly. There was a

bursting as of an exploding bladder, a slushy nastiness as of a cloven sunfish, a stench as of

a thousand opened graves, and a sound that the chronicler would not put on paper. For an

instant the ship was befouled by an acrid and blinding green cloud, and then there was only a

venomous seething astern; where—God in heaven!—the scattered plasticity of that nameless

sky-spawn was nebulously recombining in its hateful original form, whilst its distance widened

every second as the Alert gained impetus from its mounting steam.

That was all. After that Johansen only brooded over the idol in the cabin and attended to a

few matters of food for himself and the laughing maniac by his side. He did not try to navigate

after the first bold flight, for the reaction had taken something out of his soul. Then came the

storm of April 2nd, and a gathering of the clouds about his consciousness. There is a sense of

spectral whirling through liquid gulfs of infinity, of dizzying rides through reeling universes on a

comet‘s tail, and of hysterical plunges from the pit to the moon and from the moon back again

to the pit, all livened by a cachinnating chorus of the distorted, hilarious elder gods and the

green, bat-winged mocking imps of Tartarus.

Out of that dream came rescue—the Vigilant, the vice-admiralty court, the streets of Dunedin,

and the long voyage back home to the old house by the Egeberg. He could not tell—they

would think him mad. He would write of what he knew before death came, but his wife must

not guess. Death would be a boon if only it could blot out the memories.

That was the document I read, and now I have placed it in the tin box beside the bas-relief

and the papers of Professor Angell. With it shall go this record of mine—this test of my own

sanity, wherein is pieced together that which I hope may never be pieced together again. I

have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies of spring and

the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison to me. But I do not think my life will be

long. As my uncle went, as poor Johansen went, so I shall go. I know too much, and the cult

still lives.

Cthulhu still lives, too, I suppose, again in that chasm of stone which has shielded him since

the sun was young. His accursed city is sunken once more, for the Vigilant sailed over the

spot after the April storm; but his ministers on earth still bellow and prance and slay around

idol-capped monoliths in lonely places. He must have been trapped by the sinking whilst

within his black abyss, or else the world would by now be screaming with fright and frenzy.

Who knows the end? What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Loathsomeness

waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men. A time will

come—but I must not and cannot think! Let me pray that, if I do not survive this manuscript,

my executors may put caution before audacity and see that it meets no other eye.

Return to Table of Contents

Pickman's Model

(1926)

You needn‘t think I‘m crazy, Eliot—plenty of others have queerer prejudices than this. Why

don‘t you laugh at Oliver‘s grandfather, who won‘t ride in a motor? If I don‘t like that damned

subway, it‘s my own business; and we got here more quickly anyhow in the taxi. We‘d have

had to walk up the hill from Park Street if we‘d taken the car.

I know I‘m more nervous than I was when you saw me last year, but you don‘t need to hold a

clinic over it. There‘s plenty of reason, God knows, and I fancy I‘m lucky to be sane at all. Why

the third degree? You didn‘t use to be so inquisitive.

Well, if you must hear it, I don‘t know why you shouldn‘t. Maybe you ought to, anyhow, for you

kept writing me like a grieved parent when you heard I‘d begun to cut the Art Club and keep

away from Pickman. Now that he‘s disappeared I go around to the club once in a while, but

my nerves aren‘t what they were.

No, I don‘t know what‘s become of Pickman, and I don‘t like to guess. You might have

surmised I had some inside information when I dropped him—and that‘s why I don‘t want to

think where he‘s gone. Let the police find what they can—it won‘t be much, judging from the

fact that they don‘t know yet of the old North End place he hired under the name of Peters.

I‘m not sure that I could find it again myself—not that I‘d ever try, even in broad daylight! Yes, I

do know, or am afraid I know, why he maintained it. I‘m coming to that. And I think you‘ll

understand before I‘m through why I don‘t tell the police. They would ask me to guide them,

but I couldn‘t go back there even if I knew the way. There was something there—and now I

can‘t use the subway or (and you may as well have your laugh at this, too) go down into

cellars any more.

I should think you‘d have known I didn‘t drop Pickman for the same silly reasons that fussy

old women like Dr. Reid or Joe Minot or Bosworth did. Morbid art doesn‘t shock me, and when

a man has the genius Pickman had I feel it an honour to know him, no matter what direction

his work takes. Boston never had a greater painter than Richard Upton Pickman. I said it at

first and I say it still, and I never swerved an inch, either, when he shewed that ―Ghoul

Feeding‖. That, you remember, was when Minot cut him.

You know, it takes profound art and profound insight into Nature to turn out stuff like

Pickman‘s. Any magazine-cover hack can splash paint around wildly and call it a nightmare or

a Witches‘ Sabbath or a portrait of the devil, but only a great painter can make such a thing

really scare or ring true. That‘s because only a real artist knows the actual anatomy of the

terrible or the physiology of fear—the exact sort of lines and proportions that connect up with

latent instincts or hereditary memories of fright, and the proper colour contrasts and lighting

effects to stir the dormant sense of strangeness. I don‘t have to tell you why a Fuseli really

brings a shiver while a cheap ghost-story frontispiece merely makes us laugh. There‘s

something those fellows catch—beyond life—that they‘re able to make us catch for a second.

Doré had it. Sime has it. Angarola of Chicago has it. And Pickman had it as no man ever had

it before or—I hope to heaven—ever will again.

Don‘t ask me what it is they see. You know, in ordinary art, there‘s all the difference in the

world between the vital, breathing things drawn from Nature or models and the artificial truck

that commercial small fry reel off in a bare studio by rule. Well, I should say that the really

weird artist has a kind of vision which makes models, or summons up what amounts to actual

scenes from the spectral world he lives in. Anyhow, he manages to turn out results that differ

from the pretender‘s mince-pie dreams in just about the same way that the life painter‘s

results differ from the concoctions of a correspondence-school cartoonist. If I had ever seen

what Pickman saw—but no! Here, let‘s have a drink before we get any deeper. Gad, I

wouldn‘t be alive if I‘d ever seen what that man—if he was a man—saw!

You recall that Pickman‘s forte was faces. I don‘t believe anybody since Goya could put so

much of sheer hell into a set of features or a twist of expression. And before Goya you have to

go back to the mediaeval chaps who did the gargoyles and chimaeras on Notre Dame and

Mont Saint-Michel. They believed all sorts of things—and maybe they saw all sorts of things,

too, for the Middle Ages had some curious phases. I remember your asking Pickman yourself

once, the year before you went away, wherever in thunder he got such ideas and visions.

Wasn‘t that a nasty laugh he gave you? It was partly because of that laugh that Reid dropped

him. Reid, you know, had just taken up comparative pathology, and was full of pompous

―inside stuff‖ about the biological or evolutionary significance of this or that mental or physical

symptom. He said Pickman repelled him more and more every day, and almost frightened him

toward the last—that the fellow‘s features and expression were slowly developing in a way he

didn‘t like; in a way that wasn‘t human. He had a lot of talk about diet, and said Pickman must

be abnormal and eccentric to the last degree. I suppose you told Reid, if you and he had any

correspondence over it, that he‘d let Pickman‘s paintings get on his nerves or harrow up his

imagination. I know I told him that myself—then.

But keep in mind that I didn‘t drop Pickman for anything like this. On the contrary, my

admiration for him kept growing; for that ―Ghoul Feeding‖ was a tremendous achievement. As

you know, the club wouldn‘t exhibit it, and the Museum of Fine Arts wouldn‘t accept it as a gift;

and I can add that nobody would buy it, so Pickman had it right in his house till he went. Now

his father has it in Salem—you know Pickman comes of old Salem stock, and had a witch

ancestor hanged in 1692.

I got into the habit of calling on Pickman quite often, especially after I began making notes for

a monograph on weird art. Probably it was his work which put the idea into my head, and

anyhow, I found him a mine of data and suggestions when I came to develop it. He shewed

me all the paintings and drawings he had about; including some pen-and-ink sketches that

would, I verily believe, have got him kicked out of the club if many of the members had seen

them. Before long I was pretty nearly a devotee, and would listen for hours like a schoolboy to

art theories and philosophic speculations wild enough to qualify him for the Danvers asylum.

My hero-worship, coupled with the fact that people generally were commencing to have less

and less to do with him, made him get very confidential with me; and one evening he hinted

that if I were fairly close-mouthed and none too squeamish, he might shew me something

rather unusual—something a bit stronger than anything he had in the house.

―You know,‖ he said, ―there are things that won‘t do for Newbury Street—things that are out of

place here, and that can‘t be conceived here, anyhow. It‘s my business to catch the overtones

of the soul, and you won‘t find those in a parvenu set of artificial streets on made land. Back

Bay isn‘t Boston—it isn‘t anything yet, because it‘s had no time to pick up memories and

attract local spirits. If there are any ghosts here, they‘re the tame ghosts of a salt marsh and a

shallow cove; and I want human ghosts—the ghosts of beings highly organised enough to

have looked on hell and known the meaning of what they saw.

―The place for an artist to live is the North End. If any aesthete were sincere, he‘d put up with

the slums for the sake of the massed traditions. God, man! Don‘t you realise that places like

that weren‘t merely made, but actually grew? Generation after generation lived and felt and

died there, and in days when people weren‘t afraid to live and feel and die. Don‘t you know

there was a mill on Copp‘s Hill in 1632, and that half the present streets were laid out by

1650? I can shew you houses that have stood two centuries and a half and more; houses that

have witnessed what would make a modern house crumble into powder. What do moderns

know of life and the forces behind it? You call the Salem witchcraft a delusion, but I‘ll wage my

four-times-great-grandmother could have told you things. They hanged her on Gallows Hill,

with Cotton Mather looking sanctimoniously on. Mather, damn him, was afraid somebody

might succeed in kicking free of this accursed cage of monotony—I wish someone had laid a

spell on him or sucked his blood in the night!

―I can shew you a house he lived in, and I can shew you another one he was afraid to enter in

spite of all his fine bold talk. He knew things he didn‘t dare put into that stupid Magnalia or

that puerile Wonders of the Invisible World. Look here, do you know the whole North End

once had a set of tunnels that kept certain people in touch with each other‘s houses, and the

burying-ground, and the sea? Let them prosecute and persecute above ground—things went

on every day that they couldn‘t reach, and voices laughed at night that they couldn‘t place!

―Why, man, out of ten surviving houses built before 1700 and not moved since I‘ll wager that

in eight I can shew you something queer in the cellar. There‘s hardly a month that you don‘t

read of workmen finding bricked-up arches and wells leading nowhere in this or that old place

as it comes down—you could see one near Henchman Street from the elevated last year.

There were witches and what their spells summoned; pirates and what they brought in from

the sea; smugglers; privateers—and I tell you, people knew how to live, and how to enlarge

the bounds of life, in the old times! This wasn‘t the only world a bold and wise man could

know—faugh! And to think of today in contrast, with such pale-pink brains that even a club of

supposed artists gets shudders and convulsions if a picture goes beyond the feelings of a

Beacon Street tea-table!

―The only saving grace of the present is that it‘s too damned stupid to question the past very

closely. What do maps and records and guide-books really tell of the North End? Bah! At a

guess I‘ll guarantee to lead you to thirty or forty alleys and networks of alleys north of Prince

Street that aren‘t suspected by ten living beings outside of the foreigners that swarm them.

And what do those Dagoes know of their meaning? No, Thurber, these ancient places are

dreaming gorgeously and overflowing with wonder and terror and escapes from the

commonplace, and yet there‘s not a living soul to understand or profit by them. Or rather,

there‘s only one living soul—for I haven‘t been digging around in the past for nothing!

―See here, you‘re interested in this sort of thing. What if I told you that I‘ve got another studio

up there, where I can catch the night-spirit of antique horror and paint things that I couldn‘t

even think of in Newbury Street? Naturally I don‘t tell those cursed old maids at the club—with

Reid, damn him, whispering even as it is that I‘m a sort of monster bound down the toboggan

of reverse evolution. Yes, Thurber, I decided long ago that one must paint terror as well as

beauty from life, so I did some exploring in places where I had reason to know terror lives.

―I‘ve got a place that I don‘t believe three living Nordic men besides myself have ever seen. It

isn‘t so very far from the elevated as distance goes, but it‘s centuries away as the soul goes. I

took it because of the queer old brick well in the cellar—one of the sort I told you about. The

shack‘s almost tumbling down, so that nobody else would live there, and I‘d hate to tell you

how little I pay for it. The windows are boarded up, but I like that all the better, since I don‘t

want daylight for what I do. I paint in the cellar, where the inspiration is thickest, but I‘ve other

rooms furnished on the ground floor. A Sicilian owns it, and I‘ve hired it under the name of

Peters.

―Now if you‘re game, I‘ll take you there tonight. I think you‘d enjoy the pictures, for as I said,

I‘ve let myself go a bit there. It‘s no vast tour—I sometimes do it on foot, for I don‘t want to

attract attention with a taxi in such a place. We can take the shuttle at the South Station for

Battery Street, and after that the walk isn‘t much.‖

Well, Eliot, there wasn‘t much for me to do after that harangue but to keep myself from

running instead of walking for the first vacant cab we could sight. We changed to the elevated

at the South Station, and at about twelve o‘clock had climbed down the steps at Battery Street

and struck along the old waterfront past Constitution Wharf. I didn‘t keep track of the cross

streets, and can‘t tell you yet which it was we turned up, but I know it wasn‘t Greenough Lane.

When we did turn, it was to climb through the deserted length of the oldest and dirtiest alley I

ever saw in my life, with crumbling-looking gables, broken small-paned windows, and archaic

chimneys that stood out half-disintegrated against the moonlit sky. I don‘t believe there were

three houses in sight that hadn‘t been standing in Cotton Mather‘s time—certainly I glimpsed

at least two with an overhang, and once I thought I saw a peaked roof-line of the almost

forgotten pre-gambrel type, though antiquarians tell us there are none left in Boston.

From that alley, which had a dim light, we turned to the left into an equally silent and still

narrower alley with no light at all; and in a minute made what I think was an obtuse-angled

bend toward the right in the dark. Not long after this Pickman produced a flashlight and

revealed an antediluvian ten-panelled door that looked damnably worm-eaten. Unlocking it,

he ushered me into a barren hallway with what was once splendid dark-oak panelling—

simple, of course, but thrillingly suggestive of the times of Andros and Phipps and the

Witchcraft. Then he took me through a door on the left, lighted an oil lamp, and told me to

make myself at home.

Now, Eliot, I‘m what the man in the street would call fairly ―hard-boiled‖, but I‘ll confess that

what I saw on the walls of that room gave me a bad turn. They were his pictures, you know—

the ones he couldn‘t paint or even shew in Newbury Street—and he was right when he said

he had ―let himself go‖. Here—have another drink—I need one anyhow!

There‘s no use in my trying to tell you what they were like, because the awful, the

blasphemous horror, and the unbelievable loathsomeness and moral foetor came from simple

touches quite beyond the power of words to classify. There was none of the exotic technique

you see in Sidney Sime, none of the trans-Saturnian landscapes and lunar fungi that Clark

Ashton Smith uses to freeze the blood. The backgrounds were mostly old churchyards, deep

woods, cliffs by the sea, brick tunnels, ancient panelled rooms, or simple vaults of masonry.

Copp‘s Hill Burying Ground, which could not be many blocks away from this very house, was

a favourite scene.

The madness and monstrosity lay in the figures in the foreground—for Pickman‘s morbid art

was preëminently one of daemoniac portraiture. These figures were seldom completely

human, but often approached humanity in varying degree. Most of the bodies, while roughly

bipedal, had a forward slumping, and a vaguely canine cast. The texture of the majority was a

kind of unpleasant rubberiness. Ugh! I can see them now! Their occupations—well, don‘t ask

me to be too precise. They were usually feeding—I won‘t say on what. They were sometimes

shewn in groups in cemeteries or underground passages, and often appeared to be in battle

over their prey—or rather, their treasure-trove. And what damnable expressiveness Pickman

sometimes gave the sightless faces of this charnel booty! Occasionally the things were shewn

leaping through open windows at night, or squatting on the chests of sleepers, worrying at

their throats. One canvas shewed a ring of them baying about a hanged witch on Gallows Hill,

whose dead face held a close kinship to theirs.

But don‘t get the idea that it was all this hideous business of theme and setting which struck

me faint. I‘m not a three-year-old kid, and I‘d seen much like this before. It was the faces,

Eliot, those accursed faces, that leered and slavered out of the canvas with the very breath of

life! By God, man, I verily believe they were alive! That nauseous wizard had waked the fires

of hell in pigment, and his brush had been a nightmare-spawning wand. Give me that

decanter, Eliot!

There was one thing called ―The Lesson‖—heaven pity me, that I ever saw it! Listen—can you

fancy a squatting circle of nameless dog-like things in a churchyard teaching a small child

how to feed like themselves? The price of a changeling, I suppose—you know the old myth

about how the weird people leave their spawn in cradles in exchange for the human babes

they steal. Pickman was shewing what happens to those stolen babes—how they grow up—

and then I began to see a hideous relationship in the faces of the human and non-human

figures. He was, in all his gradations of morbidity between the frankly non-human and the

degradedly human, establishing a sardonic linkage and evolution. The dog-things were

developed from mortals!

And no sooner had I wondered what he made of their own young as left with mankind in the

form of changelings, than my eye caught a picture embodying that very thought. It was that of

an ancient Puritan interior—a heavily beamed room with lattice windows, a settle, and clumsy

seventeenth-century furniture, with the family sitting about while the father read from the

Scriptures. Every face but one shewed nobility and reverence, but that one reflected the

mockery of the pit. It was that of a young man in years, and no doubt belonged to a supposed

son of that pious father, but in essence it was the kin of the unclean things. It was their

changeling—and in a spirit of supreme irony Pickman had given the features a very

perceptible resemblance to his own.

By this time Pickman had lighted a lamp in an adjoining room and was politely holding open

the door for me; asking me if I would care to see his ―modern studies‖. I hadn‘t been able to

give him much of my opinions—I was too speechless with fright and loathing—but I think he

fully understood and felt highly complimented. And now I want to assure you again, Eliot, that

I‘m no mollycoddle to scream at anything which shews a bit of departure from the usual. I‘m

middle-aged and decently sophisticated, and I guess you saw enough of me in France to

know I‘m not easily knocked out. Remember, too, that I‘d just about recovered my wind and

gotten used to those frightful pictures which turned colonial New England into a kind of annex

of hell. Well, in spite of all this, that next room forced a real scream out of me, and I had to

clutch at the doorway to keep from keeling over. The other chamber had shewn a pack of

ghouls and witches overrunning the world of our forefathers, but this one brought the horror

right into our own daily life!

Gad, how that man could paint! There was a study called ―Subway Accident‖, in which a flock

of the vile things were clambering up from some unknown catacomb through a crack in the

floor of the Boylston Street subway and attacking a crowd of people on the platform. Another

shewed a dance on Copp‘s Hill among the tombs with the background of today. Then there

were any number of cellar views, with monsters creeping in through holes and rifts in the

masonry and grinning as they squatted behind barrels or furnaces and waited for their first

victim to descend the stairs.

One disgusting canvas seemed to depict a vast cross-section of Beacon Hill, with ant-like

armies of the mephitic monsters squeezing themselves through burrows that honeycombed

the ground. Dances in the modern cemeteries were freely pictured, and another conception

somehow shocked me more than all the rest—a scene in an unknown vault, where scores of

the beasts crowded about one who held a well-known Boston guide-book and was evidently

reading aloud. All were pointing to a certain passage, and every face seemed so distorted

with epileptic and reverberant laughter that I almost thought I heard the fiendish echoes. The

title of the picture was, ―Holmes, Lowell, and Longfellow Lie Buried in Mount Auburn‖.

As I gradually steadied myself and got readjusted to this second room of deviltry and

morbidity, I began to analyse some of the points in my sickening loathing. In the first place, I

said to myself, these things repelled because of the utter inhumanity and callous cruelty they

shewed in Pickman. The fellow must be a relentless enemy of all mankind to take such glee in

the torture of brain and flesh and the degradation of the mortal tenement. In the second place,

they terrified because of their very greatness. Their art was the art that convinced—when we

saw the pictures we saw the daemons themselves and were afraid of them. And the queer

part was, that Pickman got none of his power from the use of selectiveness or bizarrerie.

Nothing was blurred, distorted, or conventionalised; outlines were sharp and life-like, and

details were almost painfully defined. And the faces!

It was not any mere artist‘s interpretation that we saw; it was pandemonium itself, crystal clear

in stark objectivity. That was it, by heaven! The man was not a fantaisiste or romanticist at

all—he did not even try to give us the churning, prismatic ephemera of dreams, but coldly and

sardonically reflected some stable, mechanistic, and well-established horror-world which he

saw fully, brilliantly, squarely, and unfalteringly. God knows what that world can have been, or

where he ever glimpsed the blasphemous shapes that loped and trotted and crawled through

it; but whatever the baffling source of his images, one thing was plain. Pickman was in every

sense—in conception and in execution—a thorough, painstaking, and almost scientific realist.

My host was now leading the way down cellar to his actual studio, and I braced myself for

some hellish effects among the unfinished canvases. As we reached the bottom of the damp

stairs he turned his flashlight to a corner of the large open space at hand, revealing the

circular brick curb of what was evidently a great well in the earthen floor. We walked nearer,

and I saw that it must be five feet across, with walls a good foot thick and some six inches

above the ground level—solid work of the seventeenth century, or I was much mistaken. That,

Pickman said, was the kind of thing he had been talking about—an aperture of the network of

tunnels that used to undermine the hill. I noticed idly that it did not seem to be bricked up, and

that a heavy disc of wood formed the apparent cover. Thinking of the things this well must

have been connected with if Pickman‘s wild hints had not been mere rhetoric, I shivered

slightly; then turned to follow him up a step and through a narrow door into a room of fair size,

provided with a wooden floor and furnished as a studio. An acetylene gas outfit gave the light

necessary for work.

The unfinished pictures on easels or propped against the walls were as ghastly as the

finished ones upstairs, and shewed the painstaking methods of the artist. Scenes were

blocked out with extreme care, and pencilled guide lines told of the minute exactitude which

Pickman used in getting the right perspective and proportions. The man was great—I say it

even now, knowing as much as I do. A large camera on a table excited my notice, and

Pickman told me that he used it in taking scenes for backgrounds, so that he might paint them

from photographs in the studio instead of carting his outfit around the town for this or that

view. He thought a photograph quite as good as an actual scene or model for sustained work,

and declared he employed them regularly.

There was something very disturbing about the nauseous sketches and half-finished

monstrosities that leered around from every side of the room, and when Pickman suddenly

unveiled a huge canvas on the side away from the light I could not for my life keep back a

loud scream—the second I had emitted that night. It echoed and echoed through the dim

vaultings of that ancient and nitrous cellar, and I had to choke back a flood of reaction that

threatened to burst out as hysterical laughter. Merciful Creator! Eliot, but I don‘t know how

much was real and how much was feverish fancy. It doesn‘t seem to me that earth can hold a

dream like that!

It was a colossal and nameless blasphemy with glaring red eyes, and it held in bony claws a

thing that had been a man, gnawing at the head as a child nibbles at a stick of candy. Its

position was a kind of crouch, and as one looked one felt that at any moment it might drop its

present prey and seek a juicier morsel. But damn it all, it wasn‘t even the fiendish subject that

made it such an immortal fountain-head of all panic—not that, nor the dog face with its

pointed ears, bloodshot eyes, flat nose, and drooling lips. It wasn‘t the scaly claws nor the

mould-caked body nor the half-hooved feet—none of these, though any one of them might

well have driven an excitable man to madness.

It was the technique, Eliot—the cursed, the impious, the unnatural technique! As I am a living

being, I never elsewhere saw the actual breath of life so fused into a canvas. The monster

was there—it glared and gnawed and gnawed and glared—and I knew that only a suspension

of Nature‘s laws could ever let a man paint a thing like that without a model—without some

glimpse of the nether world which no mortal unsold to the Fiend has ever had.

Pinned with a thumb-tack to a vacant part of the canvas was a piece of paper now badly

curled up—probably, I thought, a photograph from which Pickman meant to paint a

background as hideous as the nightmare it was to enhance. I reached out to uncurl and look

at it, when suddenly I saw Pickman start as if shot. He had been listening with peculiar

intensity ever since my shocked scream had waked unaccustomed echoes in the dark cellar,

and now he seemed struck with a fright which, though not comparable to my own, had in it

more of the physical than of the spiritual. He drew a revolver and motioned me to silence,

then stepped out into the main cellar and closed the door behind him.

I think I was paralysed for an instant. Imitating Pickman‘s listening, I fancied I heard a faint

scurrying sound somewhere, and a series of squeals or bleats in a direction I couldn‘t

determine. I thought of huge rats and shuddered. Then there came a subdued sort of clatter

which somehow set me all in gooseflesh—a furtive, groping kind of clatter, though I can‘t

attempt to convey what I mean in words. It was like heavy wood falling on stone or brick—

wood on brick—what did that make me think of?

It came again, and louder. There was a vibration as if the wood had fallen farther than it had

fallen before. After that followed a sharp grating noise, a shouted gibberish from Pickman, and

the deafening discharge of all six chambers of a revolver, fired spectacularly as a lion-tamer

might fire in the air for effect. A muffled squeal or squawk, and a thud. Then more wood and

brick grating, a pause, and the opening of the door—at which I‘ll confess I started violently.

Pickman reappeared with his smoking weapon, cursing the bloated rats that infested the

ancient well.

―The deuce knows what they eat, Thurber,‖ he grinned, ―for those archaic tunnels touched

graveyard and witch-den and sea-coast. But whatever it is, they must have run short, for they

were devilish anxious to get out. Your yelling stirred them up, I fancy. Better be cautious in

these old places—our rodent friends are the one drawback, though I sometimes think they‘re

a positive asset by way of atmosphere and colour.‖

Well, Eliot, that was the end of the night‘s adventure. Pickman had promised to shew me the

place, and heaven knows he had done it. He led me out of that tangle of alleys in another

direction, it seems, for when we sighted a lamp post we were in a half-familiar street with

monotonous rows of mingled tenement blocks and old houses. Charter Street, it turned out to

be, but I was too flustered to notice just where we hit it. We were too late for the elevated, and

walked back downtown through Hanover Street. I remember that walk. We switched from

Tremont up Beacon, and Pickman left me at the corner of Joy, where I turned off. I never

spoke to him again.

Why did I drop him? Don‘t be impatient. Wait till I ring for coffee. We‘ve had enough of the

other stuff, but I for one need something. No—it wasn‘t the paintings I saw in that place;

though I‘ll swear they were enough to get him ostracised in nine-tenths of the homes and

clubs of Boston, and I guess you won‘t wonder now why I have to steer clear of subways and

cellars. It was—something I found in my coat the next morning. You know, the curled-up

paper tacked to that frightful canvas in the cellar; the thing I thought was a photograph of

some scene he meant to use as a background for that monster. That last scare had come

while I was reaching to uncurl it, and it seems I had vacantly crumpled it into my pocket. But

here‘s the coffee—take it black, Eliot, if you‘re wise.

Yes, that paper was the reason I dropped Pickman; Richard Upton Pickman, the greatest

artist I have ever known—and the foulest being that ever leaped the bounds of life into the

pits of myth and madness. Eliot—old Reid was right. He wasn‘t strictly human. Either he was

born in strange shadow, or he‘d found a way to unlock the forbidden gate. It‘s all the same

now, for he‘s gone—back into the fabulous darkness he loved to haunt. Here, let‘s have the

chandelier going.

Don‘t ask me to explain or even conjecture about what I burned. Don‘t ask me, either, what

lay behind that mole-like scrambling Pickman was so keen to pass off as rats. There are

secrets, you know, which might have come down from old Salem times, and Cotton Mather

tells even stranger things. You know how damned life-like Pickman‘s paintings were—how we

all wondered where he got those faces.

Well—that paper wasn‘t a photograph of any background, after all. What it shewed was

simply the monstrous being he was painting on that awful canvas. It was the model he was

using—and its background was merely the wall of the cellar studio in minute detail. But by

God, Eliot, it was a photograph from life.

Return to Table of Contents

The Silver Key

(1926)

When Randolph Carter was thirty he lost the key of the gate of dreams. Prior to that time he

had made up for the prosiness of life by nightly excursions to strange and ancient cities

beyond space, and lovely, unbelievable garden lands across ethereal seas; but as middle age

hardened upon him he felt these liberties slipping away little by little, until at last he was cut

off altogether. No more could his galleys sail up the river Oukranos past the gilded spires of

Thran, or his elephant caravans tramp through perfumed jungles in Kled, where forgotten

palaces with veined ivory columns sleep lovely and unbroken under the moon.

He had read much of things as they are, and talked with too many people. Well-meaning

philosophers had taught him to look into the logical relations of things, and analyse the

processes which shaped his thoughts and fancies. Wonder had gone away, and he had

forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference

betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value

the one above the other. Custom had dinned into his ears a superstitious reverence for that

which tangibly and physically exists, and had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions.

Wise men told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and he believed it because he

could see that they might easily be so. What he failed to recall was that the deeds of reality

are just as inane and childish, and even more absurd because their actors persist in fancying

them full of meaning and purpose as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to

something and from something back to nothing again, neither heeding nor knowing the

wishes or existence of the minds that flicker for a second now and then in the darkness.

They had chained him down to things that are, and had then explained the workings of those

things till mystery had gone out of the world. When he complained, and longed to escape into

twilight realms where magic moulded all the little vivid fragments and prized associations of

his mind into vistas of breathless expectancy and unquenchable delight, they turned him

instead toward the new-found prodigies of science, bidding him find wonder in the atom‘s

vortex and mystery in the sky‘s dimensions. And when he had failed to find these boons in

things whose laws are known and measurable, they told him he lacked imagination, and was

immature because he preferred dream-illusions to the illusions of our physical creation.

So Carter had tried to do as others did, and pretended that the common events and emotions

of earthy minds were more important than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. He did not

dissent when they told him that the animal pain of a stuck pig or dyspeptic ploughman in real

life is a greater thing than the peerless beauty of Narath with its hundred carven gates and

domes of chalcedony, which he dimly remembered from his dreams; and under their guidance

he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy.

Once in a while, though, he could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and meaningless all

human aspirations are, and how emptily our real impulses contrast with those pompous ideals

we profess to hold. Then he would have recourse to the polite laughter they had taught him to

use against the extravagance and artificiality of dreams; for he saw that the daily life of our

world is every inch as extravagant and artificial, and far less worthy of respect because of its

poverty in beauty and its silly reluctance to admit its own lack of reason and purpose. In this

way he became a kind of humorist, for he did not see that even humour is empty in a

mindless universe devoid of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency.

In the first days of his bondage he had turned to the gentle churchly faith endeared to him by

the naive trust of his fathers, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to promise

escape from life. Only on closer view did he mark the starved fancy and beauty, the stale and

prosy triteness, and the owlish gravity and grotesque claims of solid truth which reigned

boresomely and overwhelmingly among most of its professors; or feel to the full the

awkwardness with which it sought to keep alive as literal fact the outgrown fears and guesses

of a primal race confronting the unknown. It wearied Carter to see how solemnly people tried

to make earthly reality out of old myths which every step of their boasted science confuted,

and this misplaced seriousness killed the attachment he might have kept for the ancient

creeds had they been content to offer the sonorous rites and emotional outlets in their true

guise of ethereal fantasy.

But when he came to study those who had thrown off the old myths, he found them even

more ugly than those who had not. They did not know that beauty lies in harmony, and that

loveliness of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the

dreams and the feelings which have gone before and blindly moulded our little spheres out of

the rest of chaos. They did not see that good and evil and beauty and ugliness are only

ornamental fruits of perspective, whose sole value lies in their linkage to what chance made

our fathers think and feel, and whose finer details are different for every race and culture.

Instead, they either denied these things altogether or transferred them to the crude, vague

instincts which they shared with the beasts and peasants; so that their lives were dragged

malodorously out in pain, ugliness, and disproportion, yet filled with a ludicrous pride at

having escaped from something no more unsound than that which still held them. They had

traded the false gods of fear and blind piety for those of licence and anarchy.

Carter did not taste deeply of these modern freedoms; for their cheapness and squalor

sickened a spirit loving beauty alone, while his reason rebelled at the flimsy logic with which

their champions tried to gild brute impulse with a sacredness stripped from the idols they had

discarded. He saw that most of them, in common with their cast-off priestcraft, could not

escape from the delusion that life has a meaning apart from that which men dream into it; and

could not lay aside the crude notion of ethics and obligations beyond those of beauty, even

when all Nature shrieked of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the light of their

scientific discoveries. Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of justice, freedom, and

consistency, they cast off the old lore and the old ways with the old beliefs; nor ever stopped

to think that that lore and those ways were the sole makers of their present thoughts and

judgments, and the sole guides and standards in a meaningless universe without fixed aims

or stable points of reference. Having lost these artificial settings, their lives grew void of

direction and dramatic interest; till at length they strove to drown their ennui in bustle and

pretended usefulness, noise and excitement, barbaric display and animal sensation. When

these things palled, disappointed, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they cultivated irony

and bitterness, and found fault with the social order. Never could they realise that their brute

foundations were as shifting and contradictory as the gods of their elders, and that the

satisfaction of one moment is the bane of the next. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in dream,

and this solace the world had thrown away when in its worship of the real it threw away the

secrets of childhood and innocence.

Amidst this chaos of hollowness and unrest Carter tried to live as befitted a man of keen

thought and good heritage. With his dreams fading under the ridicule of the age he could not

believe in anything, but the love of harmony kept him close to the ways of his race and

station. He walked impassive through the cities of men, and sighed because no vista seemed

fully real; because every flash of yellow sunlight on tall roofs and every glimpse of balustraded

plazas in the first lamps of evening served only to remind him of dreams he had once known,

and to make him homesick for ethereal lands he no longer knew how to find. Travel was only

a mockery; and even the Great War stirred him but little, though he served from the first in the

Foreign Legion of France. For a while he sought friends, but soon grew weary of the

crudeness of their emotions, and the sameness and earthiness of their visions. He felt

vaguely glad that all his relatives were distant and out of touch with him, for they could not

have understood his mental life. That is, none but his grandfather and great-uncle Christopher

could, and they were long dead.

Then he began once more the writing of books, which he had left off when dreams first failed

him. But here, too, was there no satisfaction or fulfilment; for the touch of earth was upon his

mind, and he could not think of lovely things as he had done of yore. Ironic humour dragged

down all the twilight minarets he reared, and the earthy fear of improbability blasted all the

delicate and amazing flowers in his faery gardens. The convention of assumed pity spilt

mawkishness on his characters, while the myth of an important reality and significant human

events and emotions debased all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social

satire. His new novels were successful as his old ones had never been; and because he

knew how empty they must be to please an empty herd, he burned them and ceased his

writing. They were very graceful novels, in which he urbanely laughed at the dreams he lightly

sketched; but he saw that their sophistication had sapped all their life away.

It was after this that he cultivated deliberate illusion, and dabbled in the notions of the bizarre

and the eccentric as an antidote for the commonplace. Most of these, however, soon shewed

their poverty and barrenness; and he saw that the popular doctrines of occultism are as dry

and inflexible as those of science, yet without even the slender palliative of truth to redeem

them. Gross stupidity, falsehood, and muddled thinking are not dream; and form no escape

from life to a mind trained above their level. So Carter bought stranger books and sought out

deeper and more terrible men of fantastic erudition; delving into arcana of consciousness that

few have trod, and learning things about the secret pits of life, legend, and immemorial

antiquity which disturbed him ever afterward. He decided to live on a rarer plane, and

furnished his Boston home to suit his changing moods; one room for each, hung in

appropriate colours, furnished with befitting books and objects, and provided with sources of

the proper sensations of light, heat, sound, taste, and odour.

Once he heard of a man in the South who was shunned and feared for the blasphemous

things he read in prehistoric books and clay tablets smuggled from India and Arabia. Him he

visited, living with him and sharing his studies for seven years, till horror overtook them one

midnight in an unknown and archaic graveyard, and only one emerged where two had

entered. Then he went back to Arkham, the terrible witch-haunted old town of his forefathers

in New England, and had experiences in the dark, amidst the hoary willows and tottering

gambrel roofs, which made him seal forever certain pages in the diary of a wild-minded

ancestor. But these horrors took him only to the edge of reality, and were not of the true

dream country he had known in youth; so that at fifty he despaired of any rest or contentment

in a world grown too busy for beauty and too shrewd for dream.

Having perceived at last the hollowness and futility of real things, Carter spent his days in

retirement, and in wistful disjointed memories of his dream-filled youth. He thought it rather

silly that he bothered to keep on living at all, and got from a South American acquaintance a

very curious liquid to take him to oblivion without suffering. Inertia and force of habit, however,

caused him to defer action; and he lingered indecisively among thoughts of old times, taking

down the strange hangings from his walls and refitting the house as it was in his early

boyhood—purple panes, Victorian furniture, and all.

With the passage of time he became almost glad he had lingered, for his relics of youth and

his cleavage from the world made life and sophistication seem very distant and unreal; so

much so that a touch of magic and expectancy stole back into his nightly slumbers. For years

those slumbers had known only such twisted reflections of every-day things as the

commonest slumbers know, but now there returned a flicker of something stranger and wilder;

something of vaguely awesome immanence which took the form of tensely clear pictures from

his childhood days, and made him think of little inconsequential things he had long forgotten.

He would often awake calling for his mother and grandfather, both in their graves a quarter of

a century.

Then one night his grandfather reminded him of a key. The grey old scholar, as vivid as in life,

spoke long and earnestly of their ancient line, and of the strange visions of the delicate and

sensitive men who composed it. He spoke of the flame-eyed Crusader who learnt wild secrets

of the Saracens that held him captive; and of the first Sir Randolph Carter who studied magic

when Elizabeth was queen. He spoke, too, of that Edmund Carter who had just escaped

hanging in the Salem witchcraft, and who had placed in an antique box a great silver key

handed down from his ancestors. Before Carter awaked, the gentle visitant had told him

where to find that box; that carved oak box of archaic wonder whose grotesque lid no hand

had raised for two centuries.

In the dust and shadows of the great attic he found it, remote and forgotten at the back of a

drawer in a tall chest. It was about a foot square, and its Gothic carvings were so fearful that

he did not marvel no person since Edmund Carter had dared to open it. It gave forth no noise

when shaken, but was mystic with the scent of unremembered spices. That it held a key was

indeed only a dim legend, and Randolph Carter‘s father had never known such a box existed.

It was bound in rusty iron, and no means was provided for working the formidable lock. Carter

vaguely understood that he would find within it some key to the lost gate of dreams, but of

where and how to use it his grandfather had told him nothing.

An old servant forced the carven lid, shaking as he did so at the hideous faces leering from

the blackened wood, and at some unplaced familiarity. Inside, wrapped in a discoloured

parchment, was a huge key of tarnished silver covered with cryptical arabesques; but of any

legible explanation there was none. The parchment was voluminous, and held only the

strange hieroglyphs of an unknown tongue written with an antique reed. Carter recognised the

characters as those he had seen on a certain papyrus scroll belonging to that terrible scholar

of the South who had vanished one midnight in a nameless cemetery. The man had always

shivered when he read this scroll, and Carter shivered now.

But he cleaned the key, and kept it by him nightly in its aromatic box of ancient oak. His

dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and though shewing him none of the strange

cities and incredible gardens of the old days, were assuming a definite cast whose purpose

could not be mistaken. They were calling him back along the years, and with the mingled wills

of all his fathers were pulling him toward some hidden and ancestral source. Then he knew

he must go into the past and merge himself with old things, and day after day he thought of

the hills to the north where haunted Arkham and the rushing Miskatonic and the lonely rustic

homestead of his people lay.

In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the old remembered way past graceful lines of

rolling hill and stone-walled meadow, distant vale and hanging woodland, curving road and

nestling farmstead, and the crystal windings of the Miskatonic, crossed here and there by

rustic bridges of wood or stone. At one bend he saw the group of giant elms among which an

ancestor had oddly vanished a century and a half before, and shuddered as the wind blew

meaningly through them. Then there was the crumbling farmhouse of old Goody Fowler the

witch, with its little evil windows and great roof sloping nearly to the ground on the north side.

He speeded up his car as he passed it, and did not slacken till he had mounted the hill where

his mother and her fathers before her were born, and where the old white house still looked

proudly across the road at the breathlessly lovely panorama of rocky slope and verdant valley,

with the distant spires of Kingsport on the horizon, and hints of the archaic, dream-laden sea

in the farthest background.

Then came the steeper slope that held the old Carter place he had not seen in over forty

years. Afternoon was far gone when he reached the foot, and at the bend half way up he

paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the slanting floods of magic

poured out by a western sun. All the strangeness and expectancy of his recent dreams

seemed present in this hushed and unearthly landscape, and he thought of the unknown

solitudes of other planets as his eyes traced out the velvet and deserted lawns shining

undulant between their tumbled walls, the clumps of faery forest setting off far lines of purple

hills beyond hills, and the spectral wooded valley dipping down in shadow to dank hollows

where trickling waters crooned and gurgled among swollen and distorted roots.

Something made him feel that motors did not belong in the realm he was seeking, so he left

his car at the edge of the forest, and putting the great key in his coat pocket walked on up the

hill. Woods now engulfed him utterly, though he knew the house was on a high knoll that

cleared the trees except to the north. He wondered how it would look, for it had been left

vacant and untended through his neglect since the death of his strange great-uncle

Christopher thirty years before. In his boyhood he had revelled through long visits there, and

had found weird marvels in the woods beyond the orchard.

Shadows thickened around him, for the night was near. Once a gap in the trees opened up to

the right, so that he saw off across leagues of twilight meadow and spied the old

Congregational steeple on Central Hill in Kingsport; pink with the last flush of day, the panes

of the little round windows blazing with reflected fire. Then, when he was in deep shadow

again, he recalled with a start that the glimpse must have come from childish memory alone,

since the old white church had long been torn down to make room for the Congregational

Hospital. He had read of it with interest, for the paper had told about some strange burrows or

passages found in the rocky hill beneath.

Through his puzzlement a voice piped, and he started again at its familiarity after long years.

Old Benijah Corey had been his Uncle Christopher‘s hired man, and was aged even in those

far-off times of his boyhood visits. Now he must be well over a hundred, but that piping voice

could come from no one else. He could distinguish no words, yet the tone was haunting and

unmistakable. To think that ―Old Benijy‖ should still be alive!

―Mister Randy! Mister Randy! Whar be ye? D‘ye want to skeer yer Aunt Marthy plumb to

death? Hain‘t she tuld ye to keep nigh the place in the arternoon an‘ git back afur dark?

Randy! Ran . . . dee! . . . He‘s the beatin‘est boy fer runnin‘ off in the woods I ever see; haff

the time a-settin‘ moonin‘ raound that snake-den in the upper timber-lot! . . . Hey, yew, Ran . .

. dee!‖

Randolph Carter stopped in the pitch darkness and rubbed his hand across his eyes.

Something was queer. He had been somewhere he ought not to be; had strayed very far

away to places where he had not belonged, and was now inexcusably late. He had not

noticed the time on the Kingsport steeple, though he could easily have made it out with his

pocket telescope; but he knew his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented.

He was not sure he had his little telescope with him, and put his hand in his blouse pocket to

see. No, it was not there, but there was the big silver key he had found in a box somewhere.

Uncle Chris had told him something odd once about an old unopened box with a key in it, but

Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying it was no kind of thing to tell a child whose

head was already too full of queer fancies. He tried to recall just where he had found the key,

but something seemed very confused. He guessed it was in the attic at home in Boston, and

dimly remembered bribing Parks with half his week‘s allowance to help him open the box and

keep quiet about it; but when he remembered this, the face of Parks came up very strangely,

as if the wrinkles of long years had fallen upon the brisk little Cockney.

―Ran . . . dee! Ran . . . dee! Hi! Hi! Randy!‖

A swaying lantern came around the black bend, and old Benijah pounced on the silent and

bewildered form of the pilgrim.

―Durn ye, boy, so thar ye be! Ain‘t ye got a tongue in yer head, that ye can‘t answer a body? I

ben callin‘ this haff hour, an‘ ye must a heerd me long ago! Dun‘t ye know yer Aunt Marthy‘s

all a-fidget over yer bein‘ off arter dark? Wait till I tell yer Uncle Chris when he gits hum! Ye‘d

orta know these here woods ain‘t no fitten place to be traipsin‘ this hour! They‘s things abroad

what dun‘t do nobody no good, as my gran‘sir‘ knowed afur me. Come, Mister Randy, or

Hannah wun‘t keep supper no longer!‖

So Randolph Carter was marched up the road where wondering stars glimmered through high

autumn boughs. And dogs barked as the yellow light of small-paned windows shone out at the

farther turn, and the Pleiades twinkled across the open knoll where a great gambrel roof stood

black against the dim west. Aunt Martha was in the doorway, and did not scold too hard when

Benijah shoved the truant in. She knew Uncle Chris well enough to expect such things of the

Carter blood. Randolph did not shew his key, but ate his supper in silence and protested only

when bedtime came. He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and he wanted to use that

key.

In the morning Randolph was up early, and would have run off to the upper timber-lot if Uncle

Chris had not caught him and forced him into his chair by the breakfast table. He looked

impatiently around the low-pitched room with the rag carpet and exposed beams and corner-

posts, and smiled only when the orchard boughs scratched at the leaded panes of the rear

window. The trees and the hills were close to him, and formed the gates of that timeless realm

which was his true country.

Then, when he was free, he felt in his blouse pocket for the key; and being reassured,

skipped off across the orchard to the rise beyond, where the wooded hill climbed again to

heights above even the treeless knoll. The floor of the forest was mossy and mysterious, and

great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in the dim light like Druid monoliths among

the swollen and twisted trunks of a sacred grove. Once in his ascent Randolph crossed a

rushing stream whose falls a little way off sang runic incantations to the lurking fauns and

aegipans and dryads.

Then he came to the strange cave in the forest slope, the dreaded ―snake-den‖ which country

folk shunned, and away from which Benijah had warned him again and again. It was deep; far

deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for the boy had found a fissure in the

farthermost black corner that led to a loftier grotto beyond—a haunting sepulchral place

whose granite walls held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. On this occasion he crawled

in as usual, lighting his way with matches filched from the sitting-room match-safe, and

edging through the final crevice with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. He could

not tell why he approached the farther wall so confidently, or why he instinctively drew forth

the great silver key as he did so. But on he went, and when he danced back to the house that

night he offered no excuses for his lateness, nor heeded in the least the reproofs he gained

for ignoring the noontide dinner-horn altogether.

—

Now it is agreed by all the distant relatives of Randolph Carter that something occurred to

heighten his imagination in his tenth year. His cousin, Ernest B. Aspinwall, Esq., of Chicago, is

fully ten years his senior; and distinctly recalls a change in the boy after the autumn of 1883.

Randolph had looked on scenes of fantasy that few others can ever have beheld, and

stranger still were some of the qualities which he shewed in relation to very mundane things.

He seemed, in fine, to have picked up an odd gift of prophecy; and reacted unusually to

things which, though at the time without meaning, were later found to justify the singular

impressions. In subsequent decades as new inventions, new names, and new events

appeared one by one in the book of history, people would now and then recall wonderingly

how Carter had years before let fall some careless word of undoubted connexion with what

was then far in the future. He did not himself understand these words, or know why certain

things made him feel certain emotions; but fancied that some unremembered dream must be

responsible. It was as early as 1897 that he turned pale when some traveller mentioned the

French town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and friends remembered it when he was almost mortally

wounded there in 1916, while serving with the Foreign Legion in the Great War.

Carter‘s relatives talk much of these things because he has lately disappeared. His little old

servant Parks, who for years bore patiently with his vagaries, last saw him on the morning he

drove off alone in his car with a key he had recently found. Parks had helped him get the key

from the old box containing it, and had felt strangely affected by the grotesque carvings on the

box, and by some other odd quality he could not name. When Carter left, he had said he was

going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

Half way up Elm Mountain, on the way to the ruins of the old Carter place, they found his

motor set carefully by the roadside; and in it was a box of fragrant wood with carvings that

frightened the countrymen who stumbled on it. The box held only a queer parchment whose

characters no linguist or palaeographer has been able to decipher or identify. Rain had long

effaced any possible footprints, though Boston investigators had something to say about

evidences of disturbances among the fallen timbers of the Carter place. It was, they averred,

as though someone had groped about the ruins at no distant period. A common white

handkerchief found among forest rocks on the hillside beyond cannot be identified as

belonging to the missing man.

There is talk of apportioning Randolph Carter‘s estate among his heirs, but I shall stand firmly

against this course because I do not believe he is dead. There are twists of time and space, of

vision and reality, which only a dreamer can divine; and from what I know of Carter I think he

has merely found a way to traverse these mazes. Whether or not he will ever come back, I

cannot say. He wanted the lands of dream he had lost, and yearned for the days of his

childhood. Then he found a key, and I somehow believe he was able to use it to strange

advantage.

The Strange High House in the Mist

(1926)

In the morning mist comes up from the sea by the cliffs beyond Kingsport. White and feathery

it comes from the deep to its brothers the clouds, full of dreams of dank pastures and caves of

leviathan. And later, in still summer rains on the steep roofs of poets, the clouds scatter bits of

those dreams, that men shall not live without rumour of old, strange secrets, and wonders that

planets tell planets alone in the night. When tales fly thick in the grottoes of tritons, and

conches in seaweed cities blow wild tunes learned from the Elder Ones, then great eager

mists flock to heaven laden with lore, and oceanward eyes on the rocks see only a mystic

whiteness, as if the cliff‘s rim were the rim of all earth, and the solemn bells of buoys tolled

free in the aether of faery.

Now north of archaic Kingsport the crags climb lofty and curious, terrace on terrace, till the

northernmost hangs in the sky like a grey frozen wind-cloud. Alone it is, a bleak point jutting in

limitless space, for there the coast turns sharp where the great Miskatonic pours out of the

plains past Arkham, bringing woodland legends and little quaint memories of New England‘s

hills. The sea-folk in Kingsport look up at that cliff as other sea-folk look up at the pole-star,

and time the night‘s watches by the way it hides or shews the Great Bear, Cassiopeia, and

the Dragon. Among them it is one with the firmament, and truly, it is hidden from them when

the mist hides the stars or the sun. Some of the cliffs they love, as that whose grotesque

profile they call Father Neptune, or that whose pillared steps they term The Causeway; but

this one they fear because it is so near the sky. The Portuguese sailors coming in from a

voyage cross themselves when they first see it, and the old Yankees believe it would be much

graver matter than death to climb it, if indeed that were possible. Nevertheless there is an

ancient house on that cliff, and at evening men see lights in the small-paned windows.

The ancient house has always been there, and people say One dwells therein who talks with

the morning mists that come up from the deep, and perhaps sees singular things oceanward

at those times when the cliff‘s rim becomes the rim of all earth, and solemn buoys toll free in

the white aether of faery. This they tell from hearsay, for that forbidding crag is always

unvisited, and natives dislike to train telescopes on it. Summer boarders have indeed

scanned it with jaunty binoculars, but have never seen more than the grey primeval roof,

peaked and shingled, whose eaves come nearly to the grey foundations, and the dim yellow

light of the little windows peeping out from under those eaves in the dusk. These summer

people do not believe that the same One has lived in the ancient house for hundreds of years,

but cannot prove their heresy to any real Kingsporter. Even the Terrible Old Man who talks to

leaden pendulums in bottles, buys groceries with centuried Spanish gold, and keeps stone

idols in the yard of his antediluvian cottage in Water Street can only say these things were the

same when his grandfather was a boy, and that must have been inconceivable ages ago,

when Belcher or Shirley or Pownall or Bernard was Governor of His Majesty‘s Province of the

Massachusetts-Bay.

Then one summer there came a philosopher into Kingsport. His name was Thomas Olney,

and he taught ponderous things in a college by Narragansett Bay. With stout wife and

romping children he came, and his eyes were weary with seeing the same things for many

years, and thinking the same well-disciplined thoughts. He looked at the mists from the

diadem of Father Neptune, and tried to walk into their white world of mystery along the titan

steps of The Causeway. Morning after morning he would lie on the cliffs and look over the

world‘s rim at the cryptical aether beyond, listening to spectral bells and the wild cries of what

might have been gulls. Then, when the mist would lift and the sea stand out prosy with the

smoke of steamers, he would sigh and descend to the town, where he loved to thread the

narrow olden lanes up and down hill, and study the crazy tottering gables and odd pillared

doorways which had sheltered so many generations of sturdy sea-folk. And he even talked

with the Terrible Old Man, who was not fond of strangers, and was invited into his fearsomely

archaic cottage where low ceilings and wormy panelling hear the echoes of disquieting

soliloquies in the dark small hours.

Of course it was inevitable that Olney should mark the grey unvisited cottage in the sky, on

that sinister northward crag which is one with the mists and the firmament. Always over

Kingsport it hung, and always its mystery sounded in whispers through Kingsport‘s crooked

alleys. The Terrible Old Man wheezed a tale that his father had told him, of lightning that shot

one night up from that peaked cottage to the clouds of higher heaven; and Granny Orne,

whose tiny gambrel-roofed abode in Ship Street is all covered with moss and ivy, croaked

over something her grandmother had heard at second-hand, about shapes that flapped out of

the eastern mists straight into the narrow single door of that unreachable place—for the door

is set close to the edge of the crag toward the ocean, and glimpsed only from ships at sea.

At length, being avid for new strange things and held back by neither the Kingsporter‘s fear

nor the summer boarder‘s usual indolence, Olney made a very terrible resolve. Despite a

conservative training—or because of it, for humdrum lives breed wistful longings of the

unknown—he swore a great oath to scale that avoided northern cliff and visit the abnormally

antique grey cottage in the sky. Very plausibly his saner self argued that the place must be

tenanted by people who reached it from inland along the easier ridge beside the Miskatonic‘s

estuary. Probably they traded in Arkham, knowing how little Kingsport liked their habitation, or

perhaps being unable to climb down the cliff on the Kingsport side. Olney walked out along

the lesser cliffs to where the great crag leaped insolently up to consort with celestial things,

and became very sure that no human feet could mount it or descend it on that beetling

southern slope. East and north it rose thousands of feet vertically from the water, so only the

western side, inland and toward Arkham, remained.

One early morning in August Olney set out to find a path to the inaccessible pinnacle. He

worked northwest along pleasant back roads, past Hooper‘s Pond and the old brick powder-

house to where the pastures slope up to the ridge above the Miskatonic and give a lovely

vista of Arkham‘s white Georgian steeples across leagues of river and meadow. Here he

found a shady road to Arkham, but no trail at all in the seaward direction he wished. Woods

and fields crowded up to the high bank of the river‘s mouth, and bore not a sign of man‘s

presence; not even a stone wall or a straying cow, but only the tall grass and giant trees and

tangles of briers that the first Indian might have seen. As he climbed slowly east, higher and

higher above the estuary on his left and nearer and nearer the sea, he found the way growing

in difficulty; till he wondered how ever the dwellers in that disliked place managed to reach the

world outside, and whether they came often to market in Arkham.

Then the trees thinned, and far below him on his right he saw the hills and antique roofs and

spires of Kingsport. Even Central Hill was a dwarf from this height, and he could just make out

the ancient graveyard by the Congregational Hospital, beneath which rumour said some

terrible caves or burrows lurked. Ahead lay sparse grass and scrub blueberry bushes, and

beyond them the naked rock of the crag and the thin peak of the dreaded grey cottage. Now

the ridge narrowed, and Olney grew dizzy at his loneness in the sky. South of him the frightful

precipice above Kingsport, north of him the vertical drop of nearly a mile to the river‘s mouth.

Suddenly a great chasm opened before him, ten feet deep, so that he had to let himself down

by his hands and drop to a slanting floor, and then crawl perilously up a natural defile in the

opposite wall. So this was the way the folk of the uncanny house journeyed betwixt earth and

sky!

When he climbed out of the chasm a morning mist was gathering, but he clearly saw the lofty

and unhallowed cottage ahead; walls as grey as the rock, and high peak standing bold

against the milky white of the seaward vapours. And he perceived that there was no door on

this landward end, but only a couple of small lattice windows with dingy bull‘s-eye panes

leaded in seventeenth-century fashion. All around him was cloud and chaos, and he could

see nothing below but the whiteness of illimitable space. He was alone in the sky with this

queer and very disturbing house; and when he sidled around to the front and saw that the wall

stood flush with the cliff‘s edge, so that the single narrow door was not to be reached save

from the empty aether, he felt a distinct terror that altitude could not wholly explain. And it was

very odd that shingles so worm-eaten could survive, or bricks so crumbled still form a

standing chimney.

As the mist thickened, Olney crept around to the windows on the north and west and south

sides, trying them but finding them all locked. He was vaguely glad they were locked,

because the more he saw of that house the less he wished to get in. Then a sound halted

him. He heard a lock rattle and bolt shoot, and a long creaking follow as if a heavy door were

slowly and cautiously opened. This was on the oceanward side that he could not see, where

the narrow portal opened on blank space thousands of feet in the misty sky above the waves.

Then there was heavy, deliberate tramping in the cottage, and Olney heard the windows

opening, first on the north side opposite him, and then on the west just around the corner.

Next would come the south windows, under the great low eaves on the side where he stood;

and it must be said that he was more than uncomfortable as he thought of the detestable

house on one side and the vacancy of upper air on the other. When a fumbling came in the

nearer casements he crept around to the west again, flattening himself against the wall

beside the now opened windows. It was plain that the owner had come home; but he had not

come from the land, nor from any balloon or airship that could be imagined. Steps sounded

again, and Olney edged round to the north; but before he could find a haven a voice called

softly, and he knew he must confront his host.

Stuck out of a west window was a great black-bearded face whose eyes shone

phosphorescently with the imprint of unheard-of sights. But the voice was gentle, and of a

quaint olden kind, so that Olney did not shudder when a brown hand reached out to help him

over the sill and into that low room of black oak wainscots and carved Tudor furnishings. The

man was clad in very ancient garments, and had about him an unplaceable nimbus of sea-

lore and dreams of tall galleons. Olney does not recall many of the wonders he told, or even

who he was; but says that he was strange and kindly, and filled with the magic of unfathomed

voids of time and space. The small room seemed green with a dim aqueous light, and Olney

saw that the far windows to the east were not open, but shut against the misty aether with dull

thick panes like the bottoms of old bottles.

That bearded host seemed young, yet looked out of eyes steeped in the elder mysteries; and

from the tales of marvellous ancient things he related, it must be guessed that the village folk

were right in saying he had communed with the mists of the sea and the clouds of the sky

ever since there was any village to watch his taciturn dwelling from the plain below. And the

day wore on, and still Olney listened to rumours of old times and far places, and heard how

the Kings of Atlantis fought with the slippery blasphemies that wriggled out of rifts in ocean‘s

floor, and how the pillared and weedy temple of Poseidonis is still glimpsed at midnight by lost

ships, who know by its sight that they are lost. Years of the Titans were recalled, but the host

grew timid when he spoke of the dim first age of chaos before the gods or even the Elder

Ones were born, and when only the other gods came to dance on the peak of Hatheg-Kla in

the stony desert near Ulthar, beyond the river Skai.

It was at this point that there came a knocking on the door; that ancient door of nail-studded

oak beyond which lay only the abyss of white cloud. Olney started in fright, but the bearded

man motioned him to be still, and tiptoed to the door to look out through a very small peep-

hole. What he saw he did not like, so pressed his fingers to his lips and tiptoed around to shut

and lock all the windows before returning to the ancient settle beside his guest. Then Olney

saw lingering against the translucent squares of each of the little dim windows in succession a

queer black outline as the caller moved inquisitively about before leaving; and he was glad his

host had not answered the knocking. For there are strange objects in the great abyss, and the

seeker of dreams must take care not to stir up or meet the wrong ones.

Then the shadows began to gather; first little furtive ones under the table, and then bolder

ones in the dark panelled corners. And the bearded man made enigmatical gestures of

prayer, and lit tall candles in curiously wrought brass candlesticks. Frequently he would

glance at the door as if he expected someone, and at length his glance seemed answered by

a singular rapping which must have followed some very ancient and secret code. This time he

did not even glance through the peep-hole, but swung the great oak bar and shot the bolt,

unlatching the heavy door and flinging it wide to the stars and the mist.

And then to the sound of obscure harmonies there floated into that room from the deep all the

dreams and memories of earth‘s sunken Mighty Ones. And golden flames played about

weedy locks, so that Olney was dazzled as he did them homage. Trident-bearing Neptune

was there, and sportive tritons and fantastic nereids, and upon dolphins‘ backs was balanced

a vast crenulate shell wherein rode the grey and awful form of primal Nodens, Lord of the

Great Abyss. And the conches of the tritons gave weird blasts, and the nereids made strange

sounds by striking on the grotesque resonant shells of unknown lurkers in black sea-caves.

Then hoary Nodens reached forth a wizened hand and helped Olney and his host into the

vast shell, whereat the conches and the gongs set up a wild and awesome clamour. And out

into the limitless aether reeled that fabulous train, the noise of whose shouting was lost in the

echoes of thunder.

All night in Kingsport they watched that lofty cliff when the storm and the mists gave them

glimpses of it, and when toward the small hours the little dim windows went dark they

whispered of dread and disaster. And Olney‘s children and stout wife prayed to the bland

proper god of Baptists, and hoped that the traveller would borrow an umbrella and rubbers

unless the rain stopped by morning. Then dawn swam dripping and mist-wreathed out of the

sea, and the buoys tolled solemn in vortices of white aether. And at noon elfin horns rang over

the ocean as Olney, dry and light-footed, climbed down from the cliffs to antique Kingsport

with the look of far places in his eyes. He could not recall what he had dreamed in the sky-

perched hut of that still nameless hermit, or say how he had crept down that crag untraversed

by other feet. Nor could he talk of these matters at all save with the Terrible Old Man, who

afterward mumbled queer things in his long white beard; vowing that the man who came

down from that crag was not wholly the man who went up, and that somewhere under that

grey peaked roof, or amidst inconceivable reaches of that sinister white mist, there lingered

still the lost spirit of him who was Thomas Olney.

And ever since that hour, through dull dragging years of greyness and weariness, the

philosopher has laboured and eaten and slept and done uncomplaining the suitable deeds of

a citizen. Not any more does he long for the magic of farther hills, or sigh for secrets that peer

like green reefs from a bottomless sea. The sameness of his days no longer gives him

sorrow, and well-disciplined thoughts have grown enough for his imagination. His good wife

waxes stouter and his children older and prosier and more useful, and he never fails to smile

correctly with pride when the occasion calls for it. In his glance there is not any restless light,

and if he ever listens for solemn bells or far elfin horns it is only at night when old dreams are

wandering. He has never seen Kingsport again, for his family disliked the funny old houses,

and complained that the drains were impossibly bad. They have a trim bungalow now at

Bristol Highlands, where no tall crags tower, and the neighbours are urban and modern.

But in Kingsport strange tales are abroad, and even the Terrible Old Man admits a thing

untold by his grandfather. For now, when the wind sweeps boisterous out of the north past the

high ancient house that is one with the firmament, there is broken at last that ominous

brooding silence ever before the bane of Kingsport‘s maritime cotters. And old folk tell of

pleasing voices heard singing there, and of laughter that swells with joys beyond earth‘s joys;

and say that at evening the little low windows are brighter than formerly. They say, too, that

the fierce aurora comes oftener to that spot, shining blue in the north with visions of frozen

worlds while the crag and the cottage hang black and fantastic against wild coruscations. And

the mists of the dawn are thicker, and sailors are not quite so sure that all the muffled

seaward ringing is that of the solemn buoys.

Worst of all, though, is the shrivelling of old fears in the hearts of Kingsport‘s young men, who

grow prone to listen at night to the north wind‘s faint distant sounds. They swear no harm or

pain can inhabit that high peaked cottage, for in the new voices gladness beats, and with

them the tinkle of laughter and music. What tales the sea-mists may bring to that haunted and

northernmost pinnacle they do not know, but they long to extract some hint of the wonders

that knock at the cliff-yawning door when clouds are thickest. And patriarchs dread lest some

day one by one they seek out that inaccessible peak in the sky, and learn what centuried

secrets hide beneath the steep shingled roof which is part of the rocks and the stars and the

ancient fears of Kingsport. That those venturesome youths will come back they do not doubt,

but they think a light may be gone from their eyes, and a will from their hearts. And they do

not wish quaint Kingsport with its climbing lanes and archaic gables to drag listless down the

years while voice by voice the laughing chorus grows stronger and wilder in that unknown and

terrible eyrie where mists and the dreams of mists stop to rest on their way from the sea to the

skies.

They do not wish the souls of their young men to leave the pleasant hearths and gambrel-

roofed taverns of old Kingsport, nor do they wish the laughter and song in that high rocky

place to grow louder. For as the voice which has come has brought fresh mists from the sea

and from the north fresh lights, so do they say that still other voices will bring more mists and

more lights, till perhaps the olden gods (whose existence they hint only in whispers for fear

the Congregational parson shall hear) may come out of the deep and from unknown Kadath

in the cold waste and make their dwelling on that evilly appropriate crag so close to the gentle

hills and valleys of quiet simple fisherfolk. This they do not wish, for to plain people things not

of earth are unwelcome; and besides, the Terrible Old Man often recalls what Olney said

about a knock that the lone dweller feared, and a shape seen black and inquisitive against the

mist through those queer translucent windows of leaded bull‘s-eyes.

The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath

(1927)

Three times Randolph Carter dreamed of the marvellous city, and three times was he

snatched away while still he paused on the high terrace above it. All golden and lovely it

blazed in the sunset, with walls, temples, colonnades, and arched bridges of veined marble,

silver-basined fountains of prismatic spray in broad squares and perfumed gardens, and wide

streets marching between delicate trees and blossom-laden urns and ivory statues in

gleaming rows; while on steep northward slopes climbed tiers of red roofs and old peaked

gables harbouring little lanes of grassy cobbles. It was a fever of the gods; a fanfare of

supernal trumpets and a clash of immortal cymbals. Mystery hung about it as clouds about a

fabulous unvisited mountain; and as Carter stood breathless and expectant on that

balustraded parapet there swept up to him the poignancy and suspense of almost-vanished

memory, the pain of lost things, and the maddening need to place again what once had an

awesome and momentous place.

He knew that for him its meaning must once have been supreme; though in what cycle or

incarnation he had known it, or whether in dream or in waking, he could not tell. Vaguely it

called up glimpses of a far, forgotten first youth, when wonder and pleasure lay in all the

mystery of days, and dawn and dusk alike strode forth prophetick to the eager sound of lutes

and song; unclosing faery gates toward further and surprising marvels. But each night as he

stood on that high marble terrace with the curious urns and carven rail and looked off over

that hushed sunset city of beauty and unearthly immanence, he felt the bondage of dream‘s

tyrannous gods; for in no wise could he leave that lofty spot, or descend the wide marmoreal

flights flung endlessly down to where those streets of elder witchery lay outspread and

beckoning.

When for the third time he awaked with those flights still undescended and those hushed

sunset streets still untraversed, he prayed long and earnestly to the hidden gods of dream

that brood capricious above the clouds on unknown Kadath, in the cold waste where no man

treads. But the gods made no answer and shewed no relenting, nor did they give any

favouring sign when he prayed to them in dream, and invoked them sacrificially through the

bearded priests Nasht and Kaman-Thah, whose cavern-temple with its pillar of flame lies not

far from the gates of the waking world. It seemed, however, that his prayers must have been

adversely heard, for after even the first of them he ceased wholly to behold the marvellous

city; as if his three glimpses from afar had been mere accidents or oversights, and against

some hidden plan or wish of the gods.

At length, sick with longing for those glittering sunset streets and cryptical hill lanes among

ancient tiled roofs, nor able sleeping or waking to drive them from his mind, Carter resolved to

go with bold entreaty whither no man had gone before, and dare the icy deserts through the

dark to where unknown Kadath, veiled in cloud and crowned with unimagined stars, holds

secret and nocturnal the onyx castle of the Great Ones.

In light slumber he descended the seventy steps to the cavern of flame and talked of this

design to the bearded priests Nasht and Kaman-Thah. And the priests shook their pshent-

bearing heads and vowed it would be the death of his soul. They pointed out that the Great

Ones had shewn already their wish, and that it is not agreeable to them to be harassed by

insistent pleas. They reminded him, too, that not only had no man ever been to unknown

Kadath, but no man had ever suspected in what part of space it may lie; whether it be in the

dreamlands around our world, or in those surrounding some unguessed companion of

Fomalhaut or Aldebaran. If in our dreamland, it might conceivably be reached; but only three

fully human souls since time began had ever crossed and recrossed the black impious gulfs

to other dreamlands, and of that three two had come back quite mad. There were, in such

voyages, incalculable local dangers; as well as that shocking final peril which gibbers

unmentionably outside the ordered universe, where no dreams reach; that last amorphous

blight of nethermost confusion which blasphemes and bubbles at the centre of all infinity—the

boundless daemon-sultan Azathoth, whose name no lips dare speak aloud, and who gnaws

hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time amidst the muffled, maddening

beating of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes; to which detestable

pounding and piping dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic ultimate gods, the

blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless Other Gods whose soul and messenger is the crawling

chaos Nyarlathotep.

Of these things was Carter warned by the priests Nasht and Kaman-Thah in the cavern of

flame, but still he resolved to find the gods on unknown Kadath in the cold waste, wherever

that might be, and to win from them the sight and remembrance and shelter of the marvellous

sunset city. He knew that his journey would be strange and long, and that the Great Ones

would be against it; but being old in the land of dream he counted on many useful memories

and devices to aid him. So asking a farewell blessing of the priests and thinking shrewdly on

his course, he boldly descended the seven hundred steps to the Gate of Deeper Slumber and

set out through the enchanted wood.

In the tunnels of that twisted wood, whose low prodigious oaks twine groping boughs and

shine dim with the phosphorescence of strange fungi, dwell the furtive and secretive zoogs;

who know many obscure secrets of the dream-world and a few of the waking world, since the

wood at two places touches the lands of men, though it would be disastrous to say where.

Certain unexplained rumours, events, and vanishments occur among men where the zoogs

have access, and it is well that they cannot travel far outside the world of dream. But over the

nearer parts of the dream-world they pass freely, flitting small and brown and unseen and

bearing back piquant tales to beguile the hours around their hearths in the forest they love.

Most of them live in burrows, but some inhabit the trunks of the great trees; and although they

live mostly on fungi it is muttered that they have also a slight taste for meat, either physical or

spiritual, for certainly many dreamers have entered that wood who have not come out. Carter,

however, had no fear; for he was an old dreamer and had learnt their fluttering language and

made many a treaty with them; having found through their help the splendid city of Celephaïs

in Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills, where reigns half the year the great King Kuranes,

a man he had known by another name in life. Kuranes was the one soul who had been to the

star-gulfs and returned free from madness.

Threading now the low phosphorescent aisles between those gigantic trunks, Carter made

fluttering sounds in the manner of the zoogs, and listened now and then for responses. He

remembered one particular village of the creatures near the centre of the wood, where a circle

of great mossy stones in what was once a clearing tells of older and more terrible dwellers

long forgotten, and toward this spot he hastened. He traced his way by the grotesque fungi,

which always seem better nourished as one approaches the dread circle where elder beings

danced and sacrificed. Finally the greater light of those thicker fungi revealed a sinister green

and grey vastness pushing up through the roof of the forest and out of sight. This was the

nearest of the great ring of stones, and Carter knew he was close to the zoog village.

Renewing his fluttering sound, he waited patiently; and was at length rewarded by an

impression of many eyes watching him. It was the zoogs, for one sees their weird eyes long

before one can discern their small, slippery brown outlines.

Out they swarmed, from hidden burrow and honeycombed tree, till the whole dim-litten region

was alive with them. Some of the wilder ones brushed Carter unpleasantly, and one even

nipped loathsomely at his ear; but these lawless spirits were soon restrained by their elders.

The Council of Sages, recognising the visitor, offered a gourd of fermented sap from a

haunted tree unlike the others, which had grown from a seed dropt down by someone on the

moon; and as Carter drank it ceremoniously a very strange colloquy began. The zoogs did

not, unfortunately, know where the peak of Kadath lies, nor could they even say whether the

cold waste is in our dream-world or in another. Rumours of the Great Ones came equally from

all points; and one might only say that they were likelier to be seen on high mountain peaks

than in valleys, since on such peaks they dance reminiscently when the moon is above and

the clouds beneath.

Then one very ancient zoog recalled a thing unheard-of by the others; and said that in Ulthar,

beyond the river Skai, there still lingered the last copy of those inconceivably old Pnakotic

Manuscripts made by waking men in forgotten boreal kingdoms and borne into the land of

dreams when the hairy cannibal Gnophkehs overcame many-templed Olathoë and slew all

the heroes of the land of Lomar. Those manuscripts, he said, told much of the gods; and

besides, in Ulthar there were men who had seen the signs of the gods, and even one old

priest who had scaled a great mountain to behold them dancing by moonlight. He had failed,

though his companion had succeeded and perished namelessly.

So Randolph Carter thanked the zoogs, who fluttered amicably and gave him another gourd

of moon-tree wine to take with him, and set out through the phosphorescent wood for the

other side, where the rushing Skai flows down from the slopes of Lerion, and Hatheg and Nir

and Ulthar dot the plain. Behind him, furtive and unseen, crept several of the curious zoogs;

for they wished to learn what might befall him, and bear back the legend to their people. The

vast oaks grew thicker as he pushed on beyond the village, and he looked sharply for a

certain spot where they would thin somewhat, standing quite dead or dying among the

unnaturally dense fungi and the rotting mould and mushy logs of their fallen brothers. There

he would turn sharply aside, for at that spot a mighty slab of stone rests on the forest floor;

and those who have dared approach it say that it bears an iron ring three feet wide.

Remembering the archaic circle of great mossy rocks, and what it was possibly set up for, the

zoogs do not pause near that expansive slab with its huge ring; for they realise that all which

is forgotten need not necessarily be dead, and they would not like to see the slab rise slowly

and deliberately.

Carter detoured at the proper place, and heard behind him the frightened fluttering of some of

the more timid zoogs. He had known they would follow him, so he was not disturbed; for one

grows accustomed to the anomalies of these prying creatures. It was twilight when he came

to the edge of the wood, and the strengthening glow told him it was the twilight of morning.

Over fertile plains rolling down to the Skai he saw the smoke of cottage chimneys, and on

every hand were the hedges and ploughed fields and thatched roofs of a peaceful land. Once

he stopped at a farmhouse well for a cup of water, and all the dogs barked affrightedly at the

inconspicuous zoogs that crept through the grass behind. At another house, where people

were stirring, he asked questions about the gods, and whether they danced often upon

Lerion; but the farmer and his wife would only make the Elder Sign and tell him the way to Nir

and Ulthar.

At noon he walked through the one broad high street of Nir, which he had once visited and

which marked his farthest former travels in this direction; and soon afterward he came to the

great stone bridge across the Skai, into whose central pier the masons had sealed a living

human sacrifice when they built it thirteen-hundred years before. Once on the other side, the

frequent presence of cats (who all arched their backs at the trailing zoogs) revealed the near

neighbourhood of Ulthar; for in Ulthar, according to an ancient and significant law, no man

may kill a cat. Very pleasant were the suburbs of Ulthar, with their little green cottages and

neatly fenced farms; and still pleasanter was the quaint town itself, with its old peaked roofs

and overhanging upper stories and numberless chimney-pots and narrow hill streets where

one can see old cobbles whenever the graceful cats afford space enough. Carter, the cats

being somewhat dispersed by the half-seen zoogs, picked his way directly to the modest

Temple of the Elder Ones where the priests and old records were said to be; and once within

that venerable circular tower of ivied stone—which crowns Ulthar‘s highest hill—he sought out

the patriarch Atal, who had been up the forbidden peak Hatheg-Kla in the stony desert and

had come down again alive.

Atal, seated on an ivory dais in a festooned shrine at the top of the temple, was fully three

centuries old; but still very keen of mind and memory. From him Carter learned many things

about the gods, but mainly that they are indeed only earth‘s gods, ruling feebly our own

dreamland and having no power or habitation elsewhere. They might, Atal said, heed a man‘s

prayer if in good humour; but one must not think of climbing to their onyx stronghold atop

Kadath in the cold waste. It was lucky that no man knew where Kadath towers, for the fruits of

ascending it would be very grave. Atal‘s companion Barzai the Wise had been drawn

screaming into the sky for climbing merely the known peak of Hatheg-Kla. With unknown

Kadath, if ever found, matters would be much worse; for although earth‘s gods may

sometimes be surpassed by a wise mortal, they are protected by the Other Gods from

Outside, whom it is better not to discuss. At least twice in the world‘s history the Other Gods

set their seal upon earth‘s primal granite; once in antediluvian times, as guessed from a

drawing in those parts of the Pnakotic Manuscripts too ancient to be read, and once on

Hatheg-Kla when Barzai the Wise tried to see earth‘s gods dancing by moonlight. So, Atal

said, it would be much better to let all gods alone except in tactful prayers.

Carter, though disappointed by Atal‘s discouraging advice and by the meagre help to be found

in the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, did not wholly despair.

First he questioned the old priest about that marvellous sunset city seen from the railed

terrace, thinking that perhaps he might find it without the gods‘ aid; but Atal could tell him

nothing. Probably, Atal said, the place belonged to his especial dream-world and not to the

general land of vision that many know; and conceivably it might be on another planet. In that

case earth‘s gods could not guide him if they would. But this was not likely, since the stopping

of the dreams shewed pretty clearly that it was something the Great Ones wished to hide from

him.

Then Carter did a wicked thing, offering his guileless host so many draughts of the moon-wine

which the zoogs had given him that the old man became irresponsibly talkative. Robbed of his

reserve, poor Atal babbled freely of forbidden things; telling of a great image reported by

travellers as carved on the solid rock of the mountain Ngranek, on the isle of Oriab in the

Southern Sea, and hinting that it may be a likeness which earth‘s gods once wrought of their

own features in the days when they danced by moonlight on that mountain. And he

hiccoughed likewise that the features of that image are very strange, so that one might easily

recognise them, and that they are sure signs of the authentic race of the gods.

Now the use of all this in finding the gods became at once apparent to Carter. It is known that

in disguise the younger among the Great Ones often espouse the daughters of men, so that

around the borders of the cold waste wherein stands Kadath the peasants must all bear their

blood. This being so, the way to find that waste must be to see the stone face on Ngranek

and mark the features; then, having noted them with care, to search for such features among

living men. Where they are plainest and thickest, there must the gods dwell nearest; and

whatever stony waste lies back of the villages in that place must be that wherein stands

Kadath.

Much of the Great Ones might be learnt in such regions, and those with their blood might

inherit little memories very useful to a seeker. They might not know their parentage, for the

gods so dislike to be known among men that none can be found who has seen their faces

wittingly; a thing which Carter realised even as he sought to scale Kadath. But they would

have queer lofty thoughts misunderstood by their fellows, and would sing of far places and

gardens so unlike any known even in dreamland that common folk would call them fools; and

from all this one could perhaps learn old secrets of Kadath, or gain hints of the marvellous

sunset city which the gods held secret. And more, one might in certain cases seize some well-

loved child of a god as hostage; or even capture some young god himself, disguised and

dwelling amongst men with a comely peasant maiden as his bride.

Atal, however, did not know how to find Ngranek on its isle of Oriab; and recommended that

Carter follow the singing Skai under its bridges down to the Southern Sea; where no burgess

of Ulthar has ever been, but whence the merchants come in boats or with long caravans of

mules and two-wheeled carts. There is a great city there, Dylath-Leen, but in Ulthar its

reputation is bad because of the black three-banked galleys that sail to it with rubies from no

clearly named shore. The traders that come from those galleys to deal with the jewellers are

human, or nearly so, but the rowers are never beheld; and it is not thought wholesome in

Ulthar that merchants should trade with black ships from unknown places whose rowers

cannot be exhibited.

By the time he had given this information Atal was very drowsy, and Carter laid him gently on

a couch of inlaid ebony and gathered his long beard decorously on his chest. As he turned to

go, he observed that no suppressed fluttering followed him, and wondered why the zoogs had

become so lax in their curious pursuit. Then he noticed all the sleek complacent cats of Ulthar

licking their chops with unusual gusto, and recalled the spitting and caterwauling he had

faintly heard in lower parts of the temple while absorbed in the old priest‘s conversation. He

recalled, too, the evilly hungry way in which an especially impudent young zoog had regarded

a small black kitten in the cobbled street outside. And because he loved nothing on earth

more than small black kittens, he stooped and petted the sleek cats of Ulthar as they licked

their chops, and did not mourn because those inquisitive zoogs would escort him no farther.

It was sunset now, so Carter stopped at an ancient inn on a steep little street overlooking the

lower town. And as he went out on the balcony of his room and gazed down at the sea of red

tiled roofs and cobbled ways and the pleasant fields beyond, all mellow and magical in the

slanted light, he swore that Ulthar would be a very likely place to dwell in always, were not the

memory of a greater sunset city ever goading one on toward unknown perils. Then twilight

fell, and the pink walls of the plastered gables turned violet and mystic, and little yellow lights

floated up one by one from old lattice windows. And sweet bells pealed in the temple tower

above, and the first star winked softly above the meadows across the Skai. With the night

came song, and Carter nodded as the lutanists praised ancient days from beyond the filigreed

balconies and tessellated courts of simple Ulthar. And there might have been sweetness even

in the voices of Ulthar‘s many cats, but that they were mostly heavy and silent from strange

feasting. Some of them stole off to those cryptical realms which are known only to cats and

which villagers say are on the moon‘s dark side, whither the cats leap from tall housetops, but

one small black kitten crept upstairs and sprang in Carter‘s lap to purr and play, and curled up

near his feet when he lay down at last on the little couch whose pillows were stuffed with

fragrant, drowsy herbs.

In the morning Carter joined a caravan of merchants bound for Dylath-Leen with the spun

wool of Ulthar and the cabbages of Ulthar‘s busy farms. And for six days they rode with

tinkling bells on the smooth road beside the Skai; stopping some nights at the inns of little

quaint fishing towns, and on other nights camping under the stars while snatches of

boatmen‘s songs came from the placid river. The country was very beautiful, with green

hedges and groves and picturesque peaked cottages and octagonal windmills.

On the seventh day a blur of smoke arose on the horizon ahead, and then the tall black

towers of Dylath-Leen, which is built mostly of basalt. Dylath-Leen with its thin angular towers

looks in the distance like a bit of the Giants‘ Causeway, and its streets are dark and uninviting.

There are many dismal sea-taverns near the myriad wharves, and all the town is thronged

with the strange seamen of every land on earth and of a few which are said to be not on

earth. Carter questioned the oddly robed men of that city about the peak of Ngranek on the

isle of Oriab, and found that they knew of it well. Ships came from Baharna on that island, one

being due to return thither in only a month, and Ngranek is but two days‘ zebra-ride from that

port. But few had seen the stone face of the god, because it is on a very difficult side of

Ngranek, which overlooks only sheer crags and a valley of sinister lava. Once the gods were

angered with men on that side, and spoke of the matter to the Other Gods.

It was hard to get this information from the traders and sailors in Dylath-Leen‘s sea-taverns,

because they mostly preferred to whisper of the black galleys. One of them was due in a

week with rubies from its unknown shore, and the townsfolk dreaded to see it dock. The

mouths of the men who came from it to trade were too wide, and the way their turbans were

humped up in two points above their foreheads was in especially bad taste. And their shoes

were the shortest and queerest ever seen in the Six Kingdoms. But worst of all was the matter

of the unseen rowers. Those three banks of oars moved too briskly and accurately and

vigorously to be comfortable, and it was not right for a ship to stay in port for weeks while the

merchants traded, yet to give no glimpse of its crew. It was not fair to the tavern-keepers of

Dylath-Leen, or to the grocers and butchers, either; for not a scrap of provisions was ever

sent aboard. The merchants took only gold and stout black slaves from Parg across the river.

That was all they ever took, those unpleasantly featured merchants and their unseen rowers;

never anything from the butchers and grocers, but only gold and the fat black men of Parg

whom they bought by the pound. And the odours from those galleys which the south wind

blew in from the wharves are not to be described. Only by constantly smoking strong

thagweed could even the hardiest denizen of the old sea-taverns bear them. Dylath-Leen

would never have tolerated the black galleys had such rubies been obtainable elsewhere, but

no mine in all earth‘s dreamland was known to produce their like.

Of these things Dylath-Leen‘s cosmopolitan folk chiefly gossiped whilst Carter waited patiently

for the ship from Baharna, which might bear him to the isle whereon carven Ngranek towers

lofty and barren. Meanwhile he did not fail to seek through the haunts of far travellers for any

tales they might have concerning Kadath in the cold waste or a marvellous city of marble

walls and silver fountains seen below terraces in the sunset. Of these things, however, he

learned nothing; though he once thought that a certain old slant-eyed merchant looked

queerly intelligent when the cold waste was spoken of. This man was reputed to trade with

the horrible stone villages on the icy desert plateau of Leng, which no healthy folk visit and

whose evil fires are seen at night from afar. He was even rumoured to have dealt with that

high-priest not to be described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all

alone in a prehistoric stone monastery. That such a person might well have had nibbling

traffick with such beings as may conceivably dwell in the cold waste was not to be doubted,

but Carter soon found that it was no use questioning him.

Then the black galley slipped into the harbour past the basalt mole and the tall lighthouse,

silent and alien, and with a strange stench that the south wind drove into the town.

Uneasiness rustled through the taverns along that waterfront, and after a while the dark wide-

mouthed merchants with humped turbans and short feet clumped stealthily ashore to seek the

bazaars of the jewellers. Carter observed them closely, and disliked them more the longer he

looked at them. Then he saw them drive the stout black men of Parg up the gangplank

grunting and sweating into that singular galley, and wondered in what lands—or if in any lands

at all—those fat pathetic creatures might be destined to serve.

And on the third evening of that galley‘s stay one of the uncomfortable merchants spoke to

him, smirking sinfully and hinting of what he had heard in the taverns of Carter‘s quest. He

appeared to have knowledge too secret for public telling; and though the sound of his voice

was unbearably hateful, Carter felt that the lore of so far a traveller must not be overlooked.

He bade him therefore be his own guest in locked chambers above, and drew out the last of

the zoogs‘ moon-wine to loosen his tongue. The strange merchant drank heavily, but smirked

unchanged by the draught. Then he drew forth a curious bottle with wine of his own, and

Carter saw that the bottle was a single hollowed ruby, grotesquely carved in patterns too

fabulous to be comprehended. He offered his wine to his host, and though Carter took only

the least sip, he felt the dizziness of space and the fever of unimagined jungles. All the while

the guest had been smiling more and more broadly, and as Carter slipped into blankness the

last thing he saw was that dark odious face convulsed with evil laughter, and something quite

unspeakable where one of the two frontal puffs of that orange turban had become

disarranged with the shakings of that epileptic mirth.

Carter next had consciousness amidst horrible odours beneath a tent-like awning on the deck

of a ship, with the marvellous coasts of the Southern Sea flying by in unnatural swiftness. He

was not chained, but three of the dark sardonic merchants stood grinning nearby, and the

sight of those humps in their turbans made him almost as faint as did the stench that filtered

up through the sinister hatches. He saw slip past him the glorious lands and cities of which a

fellow-dreamer of earth—a lighthouse-keeper in ancient Kingsport—had often discoursed in

the old days, and recognised the templed terraces of Zar, abode of forgotten dreams; the

spires of infamous Thalarion, that daemon-city of a thousand wonders where the eidolon Lathi

reigns; the charnal gardens of Xura, land of pleasures unattained, and the twin headlands of

crystal, meeting above in a resplendent arch, which guard the harbour of Sona-Nyl, blessed

land of fancy.

Past all these gorgeous lands the malodorous ship flew unwholesomely, urged by the

abnormal strokes of those unseen rowers below. And before the day was done Carter saw

that the steersman could have no other goal than the Basalt Pillars of the West, beyond which

simple folk say splendid Cathuria lies, but which wise dreamers well know are the gates of a

monstrous cataract wherein the oceans of earth‘s dreamland drop wholly to abysmal

nothingness and shoot through the empty spaces toward other worlds and other stars and the

awful voids outside the ordered universe where the daemon-sultan Azathoth gnaws hungrily

in chaos amid pounding and piping and the hellish dancing of the Other Gods, blind,

voiceless, tenebrous, and mindless, with their soul and messenger Nyarlathotep.

Meanwhile the three sardonic merchants would give no word of their intent, though Carter

well knew that they must be leagued with those who wished to hold him from his quest. It is

understood in the land of dream that the Other Gods have many agents moving among men;

and all these agents, whether wholly human or slightly less than human, are eager to work

the will of those blind and mindless things in return for the favour of their hideous soul and

messenger, the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep. So Carter inferred that the merchants of the

humped turbans, hearing of his daring search for the Great Ones in their castle on Kadath,

had decided to take him away and deliver him to Nyarlathothep for whatever nameless bounty

might be offered for such a prize. What might be the land of those merchants, in our known

universe or in the eldritch spaces outside, Carter could not guess; nor could he imagine at

what hellish trysting-place they would meet the crawling chaos to give him up and claim their

reward. He knew, however, that no beings as nearly human as these would dare approach

the ultimate nighted throne of the daemon Azathoth in the formless central void.

At the set of sun the merchants licked their excessively wide lips and glared hungrily, and one

of them went below and returned from some hidden and offensive cabin with a pot and basket

of plates. Then they squatted close together beneath the awning and ate the smoking meat

that was passed around. But when they gave Carter a portion, he found something very

terrible in the size and shape of it; so that he turned even paler than before and cast that

portion into the sea when no eye was on him. And again he thought of those unseen rowers

beneath, and of the suspicious nourishment from which their far too mechanical strength was

derived.

It was dark when the galley passed betwixt the Basalt Pillars of the West and the sound of the

ultimate cataract swelled portentous from ahead. And the spray of that cataract rose to

obscure the stars, and the deck grew damp, and the vessel reeled in the surging current of

the brink. Then with a queer whistle and plunge the leap was taken, and Carter felt the terrors

of nightmare as earth fell away and the great boat shot silent and comet-like into planetary

space. Never before had he known what shapeless black things lurk and caper and flounder

all through the aether, leering and grinning at such voyagers as may pass, and sometimes

feeling about with slimy paws when some moving object excites their curiosity. These are the

nameless larvae of the Other Gods, and like them are blind and without mind, and possessed

of singular hungers and thirsts.

But that offensive galley did not aim as far as Carter had feared, for he soon saw that the

helmsman was steering a course directly for the moon. The moon was a crescent, shining

larger and larger as they approached it, and shewing its singular craters and peaks

uncomfortably. The ship made for the edge, and it soon became clear that its destination was

that secret and mysterious side which is always turned away from the earth, and which no

fully human person, save perhaps the dreamer Snireth-Ko, has ever beheld. The close aspect

of the moon as the galley drew near proved very disturbing to Carter, and he did not like the

size and shape of the ruins which crumbled here and there. The dead temples on the

mountains were so placed that they could have glorified no wholesome or suitable gods, and

in the symmetries of the broken columns there seemed to lurk some dark and inner meaning

which did not invite solution. And what the structure and proportions of the olden worshippers

could have been, Carter steadily refused to conjecture.

When the ship rounded the edge, and sailed over those lands unseen by man, there

appeared in the queer landscape certain signs of life, and Carter saw many low, broad, round

cottages in fields of grotesque whitish fungi. He noticed that these cottages had no windows,

and thought that their shape suggested the huts of Esquimaux. Then he glimpsed the oily

waves of a sluggish sea, and knew that the voyage was once more to be by water—or at

least through some liquid. The galley struck the surface with a peculiar sound, and the odd

elastic way the waves received it was very perplexing to Carter. They now slid along at great

speed, once passing and hailing another galley of kindred form, but generally seeing nothing

but that curious sea and a sky that was black and star-strown even though the sun shone

scorchingly in it.

There presently rose ahead the jagged hills of a leprous-looking coast, and Carter saw the

thick unpleasant grey towers of a city. The way they leaned and bent, the manner in which

they were clustered, and the fact that they had no windows at all, was very disturbing to the

prisoner; and he bitterly mourned the folly which had made him sip the curious wine of that

merchant with the humped turban. As the coast drew nearer, and the hideous stench of that

city grew stronger, he saw upon the jagged hills many forests, some of whose trees he

recognised as akin to that solitary moon-tree in the enchanted wood of earth, from whose sap

the small brown zoogs ferment their peculiar wine.

Carter could now distinguish moving figures on the noisome wharves ahead, and the better

he saw them the worse he began to fear and detest them. For they were not men at all, or

even approximately men, but great greyish-white slippery things which could expand and

contract at will, and whose principal shape—though it often changed—was that of a sort of

toad without any eyes, but with a curiously vibrating mass of short pink tentacles on the end

of its blunt, vague snout. These objects were waddling busily about the wharves, moving

bales and crates and boxes with preternatural strength, and now and then hopping on or off

some anchored galley with long oars in their fore paws. And now and then one would appear

driving a herd of clumping slaves, which indeed were approximate human beings with wide

mouths like those merchants who traded in Dylath-Leen; only these herds, being without

turbans or shoes or clothing, did not seem so very human after all. Some of these slaves—the

fatter ones, whom a sort of overseer would pinch experimentally—were unloaded from ships

and nailed in crates which workers pushed into low warehouses or loaded on great lumbering

vans.

Once a van was hitched up and driven off, and the fabulous thing which drew it was such that

Carter gasped, even after having seen the other monstrosities of that hateful place. Now and

then a small herd of slaves dressed and turbaned like the dark merchants would be driven

aboard a galley, followed by a great crew of the slippery grey toad-things as officers,

navigators, and rowers. And Carter saw that the almost-human creatures were reserved for

the more ignominious kinds of servitude which required no strength, such as steering and

cooking, fetching and carrying, and bargaining with men on the earth or other planets where

they traded. These creatures must have been convenient on earth, for they were truly not

unlike men when dressed and carefully shod and turbaned, and could haggle in the shops of

men without embarrassment or curious explanations. But most of them, unless lean and ill-

favoured, were unclothed and packed in crates and drawn off in lumbering lorries by fabulous

things. Occasionally other beings were unloaded and crated; some very like these semi-

humans, some not so similar, and some not similar at all. And he wondered if any of the poor

stout black men of Parg were left to be unloaded and crated and shipped inland in those

obnoxious drays.

When the galley landed at a greasy-looking quay of spongy rock a nightmare horde of toad-

things wiggled out of the hatches, and two of them seized Carter and dragged him ashore.

The smell and aspect of that city are beyond telling, and Carter held only scattered images of

the tiled streets and black doorways and endless precipices of grey vertical walls without

windows. At length he was dragged within a low doorway and made to climb infinite steps in

pitch blackness. It was, apparently, all one to the toad-things whether it were light or dark. The

odour of the place was intolerable, and when Carter was locked into a chamber and left alone

he scarcely had strength to crawl around and ascertain its form and dimensions. It was

circular, and about twenty feet across.

From then on time ceased to exist. At intervals food was pushed in, but Carter would not

touch it. What his fate would be, he did not know; but he felt that he was held for the coming

of that frightful soul and messenger of infinity‘s Other Gods, the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep.

Finally, after an unguessed span of hours or days, the great stone door swung wide again and

Carter was shoved down the stairs and out into the red-litten streets of that fearsome city. It

was night on the moon, and all through the town were stationed slaves bearing torches.

In a detestable square a sort of procession was formed; ten of the toad-things and twenty-four

almost-human torch-bearers, eleven on either side, and one each before and behind. Carter

was placed in the middle of the line; five toad-things ahead and five behind, and one almost-

human torch-bearer on each side of him. Certain of the toad-things produced disgustingly

carven flutes of ivory and made loathsome sounds. To that hellish piping the column

advanced out of the tiled streets and into nighted plains of obscene fungi, soon commencing

to climb one of the lower and more gradual hills that lay behind the city. That on some frightful

slope or blasphemous plateau the crawling chaos waited, Carter could not doubt; and he

wished that the suspense might soon be over. The whining of those impious flutes was

shocking, and he would have given worlds for some even half-normal sound; but these toad-

things had no voices, and the slaves did not talk.

Then through that star-specked darkness there did come a normal sound. It rolled from the

higher hills, and from all the jagged peaks around it was caught up and echoed in a swelling

pandaemoniac chorus. It was the midnight yell of the cat, and Carter knew at last that the old

village folk were right when they made low guesses about the cryptical realms which are

known only to cats, and to which the elders among cats repair by stealth nocturnally, springing

from high housetops. Verily, it is to the moon‘s dark side that they go to leap and gambol on

the hills and converse with ancient shadows, and here amidst that column of foetid things

Carter heard their homely, friendly cry, and thought of the steep roofs and warm hearths and

little lighted windows of home.

Now much of the speech of cats was known to Randolph Carter, and in this far, terrible place

he uttered the cry that was suitable. But that he need not have done, for even as his lips

opened he heard the chorus wax and draw nearer, and saw swift shadows against the stars

as small graceful shapes leaped from hill to hill in gathering legions. The call of the clan had

been given, and before the foul procession had time even to be frightened a cloud of

smothering fur and a phalanx of murderous claws were tidally and tempestuously upon it. The

flutes stopped, and there were shrieks in the night. Dying almost-humans screamed, and cats

spit and yowled and roared, but the toad-things made never a sound as their stinking green

ichor oozed fatally upon that porous earth with the obscene fungi.

It was a stupendous sight while the torches lasted, and Carter had never before seen so

many cats. Black, grey, and white; yellow, tiger, and mixed; common, Persian, and Manx;

Thibetan, Angora, and Egyptian; all were there in the fury of battle, and there hovered over

them some trace of that profound and inviolate sanctity which made their goddess great in the

temples of Bubastis. They would leap seven strong at the throat of an almost-human or the

pink tentacled snout of a toad-thing and drag it down savagely to the fungous plain, where

myriads of their fellows would surge over it and into it with the frenzied claws and teeth of a

divine battle-fury. Carter had seized a torch from a stricken slave, but was soon overborne by

the surging waves of his loyal defenders. Then he lay in the utter blackness hearing the

clangour of war and the shouts of the victors, and feeling the soft paws of his friends as they

rushed to and fro over him in the fray.

At last awe and exhaustion closed his eyes, and when he opened them again it was upon a

strange scene. The great shining disc of the earth, thirteen times greater than that of the

moon as we see it, had risen with floods of weird light over the lunar landscape; and across

all those leagues of wild plateau and ragged crest there squatted one endless sea of cats in

orderly array. Circle on circle they reached, and two or three leaders out of the ranks were

licking his face and purring to him consolingly. Of the dead slaves and toad-things there were

not many signs, but Carter thought he saw one bone a little way off in the open space

between him and the beginning of the solid circles of the warriors.

Carter now spoke with the leaders in the soft language of cats, and learned that his ancient

friendship with the species was well known and often spoken of in the places where cats

congregate. He had not been unmarked in Ulthar when he passed through, and the sleek old

cats had remembered how he petted them after they had attended to the hungry zoogs who

looked evilly at a small black kitten. And they recalled, too, how he had welcomed the very

little kitten who came to see him at the inn, and how he had given it a saucer of rich cream in

the morning before he left. The grandfather of that very little kitten was the leader of the army

now assembled, for he had seen the evil procession from a far hill and recognised the

prisoner as a sworn friend of his kind on earth and in the land of dream.

A yowl now came from a farther peak, and the old leader paused abruptly in his conversation.

It was one of the army‘s outposts, stationed on the highest of the mountains to watch the one

foe which earth‘s cats fear; the very large and peculiar cats from Saturn, who for some reason

have not been oblivious of the charm of our moon‘s dark side. They are leagued by treaty with

the evil toad-things, and are notoriously hostile to our earthly cats; so that at this juncture a

meeting would have been a somewhat grave matter.

After a brief consultation of generals, the cats rose and assumed a closer formation, crowding

protectingly around Carter and preparing to take the great leap through space back to the

housetops of our earth and its dreamland. The old field-marshal advised Carter to let himself

be borne along smoothly and passively in the massed ranks of furry leapers, and told him

how to spring when the rest sprang and land gracefully when the rest landed. He also offered

to deposit him in any spot he desired, and Carter decided on the city of Dylath-Leen whence

the black galley had set out; for he wished to sail thence for Oriab and the carven crest of

Ngranek, and also to warn the people of the city to have no more traffick with black galleys, if

indeed that traffick could be tactfully and judiciously broken off. Then, upon a signal, the cats

all leaped gracefully with their friend packed securely in their midst; while in a black cave on a

far unhallowed summit of the moon-mountains still vainly waited the crawling chaos

Nyarlathotep.

The leap of the cats through space was very swift; and being surrounded by his companions,

Carter did not see this time the great black shapelessnesses that lurk and caper and flounder

in the abyss. Before he fully realised what had happened he was back in his familiar room at

the inn at Dylath-Leen, and the stealthy, friendly cats were pouring out of the window in

streams. The old leader from Ulthar was the last to leave, and as Carter shook his paw he

said he would be able to get home by cockcrow. When dawn came, Carter went downstairs

and learned that a week had elapsed since his capture and leaving. There was still nearly a

fortnight to wait for the ship bound toward Oriab, and during that time he said what he could

against the black galleys and their infamous ways. Most of the townsfolk believed him; yet so

fond were the jewellers of great rubies that none would wholly promise to cease trafficking

with the wide-mouthed merchants. If aught of evil ever befalls Dylath-Leen through such

traffick, it will not be his fault.

In about a week the desiderate ship put in by the black mole and tall lighthouse, and Carter

was glad to see that she was a barque of wholesome men, with painted sides and yellow

lateen sails and a grey captain in silken robes. Her cargo was the fragrant resin of Oriab‘s

inner groves, and the delicate pottery baked by the artists of Baharna, and the strange little

figures carved from Ngranek‘s ancient lava. For this they were paid in the wool of Ulthar and

the iridescent textiles of Hatheg and the ivory that the black men carve across the river in

Parg. Carter made arrangements with the captain to go to Baharna and was told that the

voyage would take ten days. And during his week of waiting he talked much with that captain

of Ngranek, and was told that very few had seen the carven face thereon; but that most

travellers are content to learn its legends from old people and lava-gatherers and image-

makers in Baharna and afterward say in their far homes that they have indeed beheld it. The

captain was not even sure that any person now living had beheld that carven face, for the

wrong side of Ngranek is very difficult and barren and sinister, and there are rumours of caves

near the peak wherein dwell the night-gaunts. But the captain did not wish to say just what a

night-gaunt might be like, since such cattle are known to haunt most persistently the dreams

of those who think too often of them. Then Carter asked that captain about unknown Kadath

in the cold waste, and the marvellous sunset city, but of these the good man could truly tell

nothing.

Carter sailed out of Dylath-Leen one early morning when the tide turned, and saw the first

rays of sunrise on the thin angular towers of that dismal basalt town. And for two days they

sailed eastward in sight of green coasts, and saw often the pleasant fishing towns that

climbed up steeply with their red roofs and chimney-pots from old dreaming wharves and

beaches where nets lay drying. But on the third day they turned sharply south where the roll

of the water was stronger, and soon passed from sight of any land. On the fifth day the sailors

were nervous, but the captain apologised for their fears, saying that the ship was about to

pass over the weedy walls and broken columns of a sunken city too old for memory, and that

when the water was clear one could see so many moving shadows in that deep place that

simple folk disliked it. He admitted, moreover, that many ships had been lost in that part of the

sea; having been hailed when quite close to it, but never seen again.

That night the moon was very bright, and one could see a great way down in the water. There

was so little wind that the ship could not move much, and the ocean was very calm. Looking

over the rail Carter saw many fathoms deep the dome of a great temple, and in front of it an

avenue of unnatural sphinxes leading to what was once a public square. Dolphins sported

merrily in and out of the ruins, and porpoises revelled clumsily here and there, sometimes

coming to the surface and leaping clear out of the sea. As the ship drifted on a little the floor

of the ocean rose in hills, and one could clearly mark the lines of ancient climbing streets and

the washed-down walls of myriad little houses.

Then the suburbs appeared, and finally a great lone building on a hill, of simpler architecture

than the other structures, and in much better repair. It was dark and low and covered four

sides of a square, with a tower at each corner, a paved court in the centre, and small curious

round windows all over it. Probably it was of basalt, though weeds draped the greater part;

and such was its lonely and impressive place on that far hill that it may have been a temple or

monastery. Some phosphorescent fish inside it gave the small round windows an aspect of

shining, and Carter did not blame the sailors much for their fears. Then by the watery

moonlight he noticed an odd high monolith in the middle of that central court, and saw that

something was tied to it. And when after getting a telescope from the captain‘s cabin he saw

that that bound thing was a sailor in the silk robes of Oriab, head downward and without any

eyes, he was glad that a rising breeze soon took the ship ahead to more healthy parts of the

sea.

The next day they spoke with a ship with violet sails bound for Zar, in the land of forgotten

dreams, with bulbs of strange coloured lilies for cargo. And on the evening of the eleventh day

they came in sight of the isle of Oriab, with Ngranek rising jagged and snow-crowned in the

distance. Oriab is a very great isle, and its port of Baharna a mighty city. The wharves of

Baharna are of porphyry, and the city rises in great stone terraces behind them, having streets

of steps that are frequently arched over by buildings and the bridges between buildings. There

is a great canal which goes under the whole city in a tunnel with granite gates and leads to

the inland lake of Yath, on whose farther shore are the vast clay-brick ruins of a primal city

whose name is not remembered. As the ship drew into the harbour at evening the twin

beacons Thon and Thal gleamed a welcome, and in all the million windows of Baharna‘s

terraces mellow lights peeped out quietly and gradually as the stars peep out overhead in the

dusk, till that steep and climbing seaport became a glittering constellation hung between the

stars of heaven and the reflections of those stars in the still harbour.

The captain, after landing, made Carter a guest in his own small house on the shore of Yath

where the rear of the town slopes down to it; and his wife and servants brought strange

toothsome foods for the traveller‘s delight. And in the days after that Carter asked for rumours

and legends of Ngranek in all the taverns and public places where lava-gatherers and image-

makers meet, but could find no one who had been up the higher slopes or seen the carven

face. Ngranek was a hard mountain with only an accursed valley behind it, and besides, one

could never depend on the certainty that night-gaunts are altogether fabulous.

When the captain sailed back to Dylath-Leen Carter took quarters in an ancient tavern

opening on an alley of steps in the original part of the town, which is built of brick and

resembles the ruins of Yath‘s farther shore. Here he laid his plans for the ascent of Ngranek,

and correlated all that he had learned from the lava-gatherers about the roads thither. The

keeper of the tavern was a very old man, and had heard so many legends that he was a great

help. He even took Carter to an upper room in that ancient house and shewed him a crude

picture which a traveller had scratched on the clay wall in the olden days when men were

bolder and less reluctant to visit Ngranek‘s higher slopes. The old tavern-keeper‘s great-

grandfather had heard from his great-grandfather that the traveller who scratched that picture

had climbed Ngranek and seen the carven face, here drawing it for others to behold; but

Carter had very great doubts, since the large rough features on the wall were hasty and

careless, and wholly overshadowed by a crowd of little companion shapes in the worst

possible taste, with horns and wings and claws and curling tails.

At last, having gained all the information he was likely to gain in the taverns and public places

of Baharna, Carter hired a zebra and set out one morning on the road by Yath‘s shore for

those inland parts wherein towers stony Ngranek. On his right were rolling hills and pleasant

orchards and neat little stone farmhouses, and he was much reminded of those fertile fields

that flank the Skai. By evening he was near the nameless ancient ruins on Yath‘s farther

shore, and though old lava-gatherers had warned him not to camp there at night, he tethered

his zebra to a curious pillar before a crumbling wall and laid his blanket in a sheltered corner

beneath some carvings whose meaning none could decipher. Around him he wrapped

another blanket, for the nights are cold in Oriab; and when upon awaking once he thought he

felt the wings of some insect brushing his face he covered his head altogether and slept in

peace till roused by the magah birds in distant resin groves.

The sun had just come up over the great slope whereon leagues of primal brick foundations

and worn walls and occasional cracked pillars and pedestals stretched down desolate to the

shore of Yath, and Carter looked about for his tethered zebra. Great was his dismay to see

that docile beast stretched prostrate beside the curious pillar to which it had been tied, and

still greater was he vexed on finding that the steed was quite dead, with its blood all sucked

away through a singular wound in its throat. His pack had been disturbed, and several shiny

knick-knacks taken away, and all around on the dusty soil were great webbed footprints for

which he could not in any way account. The legends and warnings of lava-gatherers occurred

to him and he thought of what had brushed his face in the night. Then he shouldered his pack

and strode on toward Ngranek, though not without a shiver when he saw close to him as the

highway passed through the ruins a great gaping arch low in the wall of an old temple, with

steps leading down into darkness farther than he could peer.

His course now led uphill through wilder and partly wooded country, and he saw only the huts

of charcoal-burners and the camps of those who gathered resin from the groves. The whole

air was fragrant with balsam, and all the magah birds sang blithely as they flashed their seven

colours in the sun. Near sunset he came on a new camp of lava-gatherers returning with

laden sacks from Ngranek‘s lower slopes; and here he also camped, listening to the songs

and tales of the men, and overhearing what they whispered about a companion they had lost.

He had climbed high to reach a mass of fine lava above him, and at nightfall did not return to

his fellows. When they looked for him the next day they found only his turban, nor was there

any sign on the crags below that he had fallen. They did not search any more, because the

old men among them said it would be of no use. No one ever found what the night-gaunts

took, though those beasts themselves were so uncertain as to be almost fabulous. Carter

asked them if night-gaunts sucked blood and liked shiny things and left webbed footprints, but

they all shook their heads negatively and seemed frightened at his making such an inquiry.

When he saw how taciturn they had become he asked them no more, but went to sleep in his

blanket.

The next day he rose with the lava-gatherers and exchanged farewells as they rode west and

he rode east on a zebra he had bought of them. Their older men gave him blessings and

warnings, and told him he had better not climb too high on Ngranek, but while he thanked

them heartily he was in no wise dissuaded. For still did he feel that he must find the gods on

unknown Kadath, and win from them a way to that haunting and marvellous city in the sunset.

By noon, after a long uphill ride, he came upon some abandoned brick villages of the hill-

people who had once dwelt thus close to Ngranek and carved images from its smooth lava.

Here they had dwelt till the days of the old tavern-keeper‘s grandfather, but about that time

they felt that their presence was disliked. Their homes had crept even up the mountain‘s

slope, and the higher they built the more people they would miss when the sun rose. At last

they decided it would be better to leave altogether, since things were sometimes glimpsed in

the darkness which no one could interpret favourably; so in the end all of them went down to

the sea and dwelt in Baharna, inhabiting a very old quarter and teaching their sons the old art

of image-making which to this day they carry on. It was from these children of the exiled hill-

people that Carter had heard the best tales about Ngranek when searching through

Baharna‘s ancient taverns.

All this time the great gaunt side of Ngranek was looming up higher and higher as Carter

approached it. There were sparse trees on the lower slope, and feeble shrubs above them,

and then the bare hideous rock rose spectral into the sky to mix with frost and ice and eternal

snow. Carter could see the rifts and ruggedness of that sombre stone, and did not welcome

the prospect of climbing it. In places there were solid streams of lava, and scoriac heaps that

littered slopes and ledges. Ninety aeons ago, before even the gods had danced upon its

pointed peak, that mountain had spoken with fire and roared with the voices of the inner

thunders. Now it towered all silent and sinister, bearing on the hidden side that secret titan

image whereof rumour told. And there were caves in that mountain, which might be empty

and alone with elder darkness, or might—if legend spoke truly—hold horrors of a form not to

be surmised.

The ground sloped upward to the foot of Ngranek, thinly covered with scrub oaks and ash

trees, and strown with bits of rock, lava, and ancient cinder. There were the charred embers of

many camps, where the lava-gatherers were wont to stop, and several rude altars which they

had built either to propitiate the Great Ones or to ward off what they dreamed of in Ngranek‘s

high passes and labyrinthine caves. At evening Carter reached the farthermost pile of embers

and camped for the night, tethering his zebra to a sapling and wrapping himself well in his

blanket before going to sleep. And all through the night a voonith howled distantly from the

shore of some hidden pool, but Carter felt no fear of that amphibious terror, since he had

been told with certainty that not one of them dares even approach the slopes of Ngranek.

In the clear sunshine of morning Carter began the long ascent, taking his zebra as far as that

useful beast could go, but tying it to a stunted ash tree when the floor of the thin road became

too steep. Thereafter he scrambled up alone; first through the forest with its ruins of old

villages in overgrown clearings, and then over the tough grass where anaemic shrubs grew

here and there. He regretted coming clear of the trees, since the slope was very precipitous

and the whole thing rather dizzying. At length he began to discern all the countryside spread

out beneath him whenever he looked around; the deserted huts of the image-makers, the

groves of resin trees and the camps of those who gathered from them, the woods where

prismatic magahs nest and sing, and even a hint very far away of the shores of Yath and of

those forbidding ancient ruins whose name is forgotten. He found it best not to look around,

and kept on climbing and climbing till the shrubs became very sparse and there was often

nothing but the tough grass to cling to.

Then the soil became meagre, with great patches of bare rock cropping out, and now and

then the nest of a condor in a crevice. Finally there was nothing at all but the bare rock, and

had it not been very rough and weathered, he could scarcely have ascended farther. Knobs,

ledges, and pinnacles, however, helped greatly; and it was cheering to see occasionally the

sign of some lava-gatherer scratched clumsily in the friable stone, and know that wholesome

human creatures had been there before him. After a certain height the presence of man was

further shewn by hand-holds and foot-holds hewn where they were needed, and by little

quarries and excavations where some choice vein or stream of lava had been found. In one

place a narrow ledge had been chopped artificially to an especially rich deposit far to the right

of the main line of ascent. Once or twice Carter dared to look around, and was almost

stunned by the spread of landscape below. All the island betwixt him and the coast lay open

to his sight, with Baharna‘s stone terraces and the smoke of its chimneys mystical in the

distance. And beyond that the illimitable Southern Sea with all its curious secrets.

Thus far there had been much winding around the mountain, so that the farther and carven

side was still hidden. Carter now saw a ledge running upward and to the left which seemed to

head the way he wished, and this course he took in the hope that it might prove continuous.

After ten minutes he saw it was indeed no cul-de-sac, but that it led steeply on in an arc which

would, unless suddenly interrupted or deflected, bring him after a few hours‘ climbing to that

unknown southern slope overlooking the desolate crags and the accursed valley of lava. As

new country came into view below him he saw that it was bleaker and wilder than those

seaward lands he had traversed. The mountain‘s side, too, was somewhat different; being

here pierced by curious cracks and caves not found on the straighter route he had left. Some

of these were above him and some beneath him, all opening on sheerly perpendicular cliffs

and wholly unreachable by the feet of man. The air was very cold now, but so hard was the

climbing that he did not mind it. Only the increasing rarity bothered him, and he thought that

perhaps it was this which had turned the heads of other travellers and excited those absurd

tales of night-gaunts whereby they explained the loss of such climbers as fell from these

perilous paths. He was not much impressed by travellers‘ tales, but had a good curved

scimitar in case of any trouble. All lesser thoughts were lost in the wish to see that carven face

which might set him on the track of the gods atop unknown Kadath.

At last, in the fearsome iciness of upper space, he came round fully to the hidden side of

Ngranek and saw in infinite gulfs below him the lesser crags and sterile abysses of lava which

marked the olden wrath of the Great Ones. There was unfolded, too, a vast expanse of

country to the south; but it was a desert land without fair fields or cottage chimneys, and

seemed to have no ending. No trace of the sea was visible on this side, for Oriab is a great

island. Black caverns and odd crevices were still numerous on the sheer vertical cliffs, but

none of them was accessible to a climber. There now loomed aloft a great beetling mass

which hampered the upward view, and Carter was for a moment shaken with doubt lest it

prove impassable. Poised in windy insecurity miles above earth, with only space and death on

one side and only slippery walls of rock on the other, he knew for a moment the fear that

makes men shun Ngranek‘s hidden side. He could not turn round, yet the sun was already

low. If there were no way aloft, the night would find him crouching there still, and the dawn

would not find him at all.

But there was a way, and he saw it in due season. Only a very expert dreamer could have

used those imperceptible foot-holds, yet to Carter they were sufficient. Surmounting now the

outward-hanging rock, he found the slope above much easier than that below, since a great

glacier‘s melting had left a generous space with loam and ledges. To the left a precipice

dropped straight from unknown heights to unknown depths, with a cave‘s dark mouth just out

of reach above him. Elsewhere, however, the mountain slanted back strongly, and even gave

him space to lean and rest.

He felt from the chill that he must be near the snow line, and looked up to see what glittering

pinnacles might be shining in that late ruddy sunlight. Surely enough, there was the snow

uncounted thousands of feet above, and below it a great beetling crag like that he had just

climbed; hanging there forever in bold outline, black against the white of the frozen peak. And

when he saw that crag he gasped and cried out aloud, and clutched at the jagged rock in

awe; for the titan bulge had not stayed as earth‘s dawn had shaped it, but gleamed red and

stupendous in the sunset with the carved and polished features of a god.

Stern and terrible shone that face that the sunset lit with fire. How vast it was no mind can

ever measure, but Carter knew at once that man could never have fashioned it. It was a god

chiselled by the hands of the gods, and it looked down haughty and majestic upon the seeker.

Rumour had said it was strange and not to be mistaken, and Carter saw that it was indeed so;

for those long narrow eyes and long-lobed ears, and that thin nose and pointed chin, all spoke

of a race that is not of men but of gods. He clung overawed in that lofty and perilous eyrie,

even though it was this which he had expected and come to find; for there is in a god‘s face

more of marvel than prediction can tell, and when that face is vaster than a great temple and

seen looking down at sunset in the cryptic silences of that upper world from whose dark lava it

was divinely hewn of old, the marvel is so strong that none may escape it.

Here, too, was the added marvel of recognition; for although he had planned to search all

dreamland over for those whose likeness to this face might mark them as the gods‘ children,

he now knew that he need not do so. Certainly, the great face carven on that mountain was of

no strange sort, but the kin of such as he had seen often in the taverns of the seaport

Celephaïs which lies in Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills and is ruled over by that King

Kuranes whom Carter once knew in waking life. Every year sailors with such a face came in

dark ships from the north to trade their onyx for the carved jade and spun gold and little red

singing birds of Celephaïs, and it was clear that these could be no others than the half-gods

he sought. Where they dwelt, there must the cold waste lie close, and within it unknown

Kadath and its onyx castle for the Great Ones. So to Celephaïs he must go, far distant from

the isle of Oriab, and in such parts as would take him back to Dylath-Leen and up the Skai to

the bridge by Nir, and again into the enchanted wood of the zoogs, whence the way would

bend northward through the garden lands by Oukranos to the gilded spires of Thran, where

he might find a galleon bound over the Cerenerian Sea.

But dusk was now thick, and the great carven face looked down even sterner in shadow.

Perched on that ledge night found the seeker; and in the blackness he might neither go down

nor go up, but only stand and cling and shiver in that narrow place till the day came, praying

to keep awake lest sleep loose his hold and send him down the dizzy miles of air to the crags

and sharp rocks of the accursed valley. The stars came out, but save for them there was only

black nothingness in his eyes; nothingness leagued with death, against whose beckoning he

might do no more than cling to the rocks and lean back away from an unseen brink. The last

thing of earth that he saw in the gloaming was a condor soaring close to the westward

precipice beside him, and darting screaming away when it came near the cave whose mouth

yawned just out of reach.

Suddenly, without a warning sound in the dark, Carter felt his curved scimitar drawn stealthily

out of his belt by some unseen hand. Then he heard it clatter down over the rocks below. And

between him and the Milky Way he thought he saw a very terrible outline of something

noxiously thin and horned and tailed and bat-winged. Other things, too, had begun to blot out

patches of stars west of him, as if a flock of vague entities were flapping thickly and silently

out of that inaccessible cave in the face of the precipice. Then a sort of cold rubbery arm

seized his neck and something else seized his feet, and he was lifted inconsiderately up and

swung about in space. Another minute and the stars were gone, and Carter knew that the

night-gaunts had got him.

They bore him breathless into that cliffside cavern and through monstrous labyrinths beyond.

When he struggled, as at first he did by instinct, they tickled him with deliberation. They made

no sound at all themselves, and even their membraneous wings were silent. They were

frightfully cold and damp and slippery, and their paws kneaded one detestably. Soon they

were plunging hideously downward through inconceivable abysses in a whirling, giddying,

sickening rush of dank, tomb-like air; and Carter felt they were shooting into the ultimate

vortex of shrieking and daemonic madness. He screamed again and again, but whenever he

did so the black paws tickled him with greater subtlety. Then he saw a sort of grey

phosphorescence about, and guessed they were coming even to that inner world of

subterrene horror of which dim legends tell, and which is litten only by the pale death-fire

wherewith reeks the ghoulish air and the primal mists of the pits at earth‘s core.

At last far below him he saw faint lines of grey and ominous pinnacles which he knew must be

the fabled Peaks of Thok. Awful and sinister they stand in the haunted dusk of sunless and

eternal depths; higher than man may reckon, and guarding terrible valleys where the bholes

crawl and burrow nastily. But Carter preferred to look at them than at his captors, which were

indeed shocking and uncouth black beings with smooth, oily, whale-like surfaces, unpleasant

horns that curved inward toward each other, bat-wings whose beating made no sound, ugly

prehensile paws, and barbed tails that lashed needlessly and disquietingly. And worst of all,

they never spoke or laughed, and never smiled because they had no faces at all to smile with,

but only a suggestive blankness where a face ought to be. All they ever did was clutch and fly

and tickle; that was the way of night-gaunts.

As the band flew lower the Peaks of Thok rose grey and towering on all sides, and one saw

clearly that nothing lived on that austere and impassive granite of the endless twilight. At still

lower levels the death-fires in the air gave out, and one met only the primal blackness of the

void save aloft where the thin peaks stood out goblin-like. Soon the peaks were very far away,

and nothing about but great rushing winds with the dankness of nethermost grottoes in them.

Then in the end the night-gaunts landed on a floor of unseen things which felt like layers of

bones, and left Carter all alone in that black valley. To bring him thither was the duty of the

night-gaunts that guard Ngranek; and this done, they flapped away silently. When Carter tried

to trace their flight he found he could not, since even the Peaks of Thok had faded out of

sight. There was nothing anywhere but blackness and horror and silence and bones.

Now Carter knew from a certain source that he was in the vale of Pnath, where crawl and

burrow the enormous bholes; but he did not know what to expect, because no one has ever

seen a bhole or even guessed what such a thing may be like. Bholes are known only by dim

rumour, from the rustling they make amongst mountains of bones and the slimy touch they

have when they wriggle past one. They cannot be seen because they creep only in the dark.

Carter did not wish to meet a bhole, so listened intently for any sound in the unknown depths

of bones about him. Even in this fearsome place he had a plan and an objective, for whispers

of Pnath and its approaches were not unknown to one with whom he had talked much in the

old days. In brief, it seemed fairly likely that this was the spot into which all the ghouls of the

waking world cast the refuse of their feastings; and that if he but had good luck he might

stumble upon that mighty crag taller even than Thok‘s peaks which marks the edge of their

domain. Showers of bones would tell him where to look, and once found he could call to a

ghoul to let down a ladder; for strange to say, he had a very singular link with these terrible

creatures.

A man he had known in Boston—a painter of strange pictures with a secret studio in an

ancient and unhallowed alley near a graveyard—had actually made friends with the ghouls

and had taught him to understand the simpler part of their disgusting meeping and glibbering.

This man had vanished at last, and Carter was not sure but that he might find him now, and

use for the first time in dreamland that far-away English of his dim waking life. In any case, he

felt he could persuade a ghoul to guide him out of Pnath; and it would be better to meet a

ghoul, which one can see, than a bhole, which one cannot see.

So Carter walked in the dark, and ran when he thought he heard something among the bones

underfoot. Once he bumped into a stony slope, and knew it must be the base of one of Thok‘s

peaks. Then at last he heard a monstrous rattling and clatter which reached far up in the air,

and became sure he had come nigh the crag of the ghouls. He was not sure he could be

heard from this valley miles below, but realised that the inner world has strange laws. As he

pondered he was struck by a flying bone so heavy that it must have been a skull, and

therefore realising his nearness to the fateful crag he sent up as best he might that meeping

cry which is the call of the ghoul.

Sound travels slowly, so that it was some time before he heard an answering glibber. But it

came at last, and before long he was told that a rope ladder would be lowered. The wait for

this was very tense, since there was no telling what might not have been stirred up among

those bones by his shouting. Indeed, it was not long before he actually did hear a vague

rustling afar off. As this thoughtfully approached, he became more and more uncomfortable;

for he did not wish to move away from the spot where the ladder would come. Finally the

tension grew almost unbearable, and he was about to flee in panic when the thud of

something on the newly heaped bones nearby drew his notice from the other sound. It was

the ladder, and after a minute of groping he had it taut in his hands. But the other sound did

not cease, and followed him even as he climbed. He had gone fully five feet from the ground

when the rattling beneath waxed emphatic, and was a good ten feet up when something

swayed the ladder from below. At a height which must have been fifteen or twenty feet he felt

his whole side brushed by a great slippery length which grew alternately convex and concave

with wriggling, and thereafter he climbed desperately to escape the unendurable nuzzling of

that loathsome and overfed bhole whose form no man might see.

For hours he climbed with aching arms and blistered hands, seeing again the grey death-fire

and Thok‘s uncomfortable pinnacles. At last he discerned above him the projecting edge of

the great crag of the ghouls, whose vertical side he could not glimpse; and hours later he saw

a curious face peering over it as a gargoyle peers over a parapet of Notre Dame. This almost

made him lose his hold through faintness, but a moment later he was himself again; for his

vanished friend Richard Pickman had once introduced him to a ghoul, and he knew well their

canine faces and slumping forms and unmentionable idiosyncrasies. So he had himself well

under control when that hideous thing pulled him out of the dizzy emptiness over the edge of

the crag, and did not scream at the partly consumed refuse heaped at one side or at the

squatting circles of ghouls who gnawed and watched curiously.

He was now on a dim-litten plain whose sole topographical features were great boulders and

the entrances of burrows. The ghouls were in general respectful, even if one did attempt to

pinch him while several others eyed his leanness speculatively. Through patient glibbering he

made inquiries regarding his vanished friend, and found he had become a ghoul of some

prominence in abysses nearer the waking world. A greenish elderly ghoul offered to conduct

him to Pickman‘s present habitation, so despite a natural loathing he followed the creature

into a capacious burrow and crawled after him for hours in the blackness of rank mould. They

emerged on a dim plain strown with singular relics of earth—old gravestones, broken urns,

and grotesque fragments of monuments—and Carter realised with some emotion that he was

probably nearer the waking world than at any other time since he had gone down the seven

hundred steps from the cavern of flame to the Gate of Deeper Slumber.

There, on a tombstone of 1768 stolen from the Granary Burying Ground in Boston, sat the

ghoul which was once the artist Richard Upton Pickman. It was naked and rubbery, and had

acquired so much of the ghoulish physiognomy that its human origin was already obscure.

But it still remembered a little English, and was able to converse with Carter in grunts and

monosyllables, helped out now and then by the glibbering of ghouls. When it learned that

Carter wished to get to the enchanted wood and from there to the city Celephaïs in Ooth-

Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills, it seemed rather doubtful; for these ghouls of the waking

world do no business in the graveyards of upper dreamland (leaving that to the web-footed

wamps that are spawned in dead cities), and many things intervene betwixt their gulf and the

enchanted wood, including the terrible kingdom of the gugs.

The gugs, hairy and gigantic, once reared stone circles in that wood and made strange

sacrifices to the Other Gods and the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep, until one night an

abomination of theirs reached the ears of earth‘s gods and they were banished to caverns

below. Only a great trap-door of stone with an iron ring connects the abyss of the earth-ghouls

with the enchanted wood, and this the gugs are afraid to open because of a curse. That a

mortal dreamer could traverse their cavern realm and leave by that door is inconceivable; for

mortal dreamers were their former food, and they have legends of the toothsomeness of such

dreamers even though banishment has restricted their diet to the ghasts, those repulsive

beings which die in the light, and which live in the vaults of Zin and leap on long hind legs like

kangaroos.

So the ghoul that was Pickman advised Carter either to leave the abyss at Sarkomand, that

deserted city in the valley below Leng where black nitrous stairways guarded by winged

diorite lions lead down from dreamland to the lower gulfs, or to return through a churchyard to

the waking world and begin the quest anew down the seventy steps of light slumber to the

cavern of flame and the seven hundred steps to the Gate of Deeper Slumber and the

enchanted wood. This, however, did not suit the seeker; for he knew nothing of the way from

Leng to Ooth-Nargai, and was likewise reluctant to awake lest he forget all he had so far

gained in this dream. It were disastrous to his quest to forget the august and celestial faces of

those seamen from the north who traded onyx in Celephaïs, and who, being the sons of gods,

must point the way to the cold waste and Kadath where the Great Ones dwell.

After much persuasion the ghoul consented to guide his guest inside the great wall of the

gugs‘ kingdom. There was one chance that Carter might be able to steal through that twilight

realm of circular stone towers at an hour when the giants would be all gorged and snoring

indoors, and reach the central tower with the sign of Koth upon it, which has the stairs leading

up to that stone trap-door in the enchanted wood. Pickman even consented to lend three

ghouls to help with a tombstone lever in raising the stone door; for of ghouls the gugs are

somewhat afraid, and they often flee from their own colossal graveyards when they see

feasting there.

He also advised Carter to disguise as a ghoul himself; shaving the beard he had allowed to

grow (for ghouls have none), wallowing naked in the mould to get the correct surface, and

loping in the usual slumping way, with his clothing carried in a bundle as if it were a choice

morsel from a tomb. They would reach the city of the gugs—which is coterminous with the

whole kingdom—through the proper burrows, emerging in a cemetery not far from the stair-

containing Tower of Koth. They must beware, however, of a large cave near the cemetery; for

this is the mouth of the vaults of Zin, and the vindictive ghasts are always on watch there

murderously for those denizens of the upper abyss who hunt and prey on them. The ghasts

try to come out when the gugs sleep, and they attack ghouls as readily as gugs, for they

cannot discriminate. They are very primitive, and eat one another. The gugs have a sentry at

a narrow place in the vaults of Zin, but he is often drowsy and is sometimes surprised by a

party of ghasts. Though ghasts cannot live in real light, they can endure the grey twilight of

the abyss for hours.

So at length Carter crawled through endless burrows with three helpful ghouls bearing the

slate gravestone of Col. Nehemiah Derby, obiit 1719, from the Charter Street Burying Ground

in Salem. When they came again into open twilight they were in a forest of vast lichened

monoliths reaching nearly as high as the eye could see and forming the modest gravestones

of the gugs. On the right of the hole out of which they wriggled, and seen through aisles of

monoliths, was a stupendous vista of Cyclopean round towers mounting up illimitable into the

grey air of inner earth. This was the great city of the gugs, whose doorways are thirty feet

high. Ghouls come here often, for a buried gug will feed a community for almost a year, and

even with the added peril it is better to burrow for gugs than to bother with the graves of men.

Carter now understood the occasional titan bones he had felt beneath him in the vale of

Pnath.

Straight ahead, and just outside the cemetery, rose a sheer perpendicular cliff at whose base

an immense and forbidding cavern yawned. This the ghouls told Carter to avoid as much as

possible, since it was the entrance to the unhallowed vaults of Zin where gugs hunt ghasts in

the darkness. And truly, that warning was soon well justified; for the moment a ghoul began to

creep toward the towers to see if the hour of the gugs‘ resting had been rightly timed, there

glowed in the gloom of that great cavern‘s mouth first one pair of yellowish-red eyes and then

another, implying that the gugs were one sentry less, and that ghasts have indeed an

excellent sharpness of smell. So the ghoul returned to the burrow and motioned his

companions to be silent. It was best to leave the ghasts to their own devices, and there was a

possibility that they might soon withdraw, since they must naturally be rather tired after coping

with a gug sentry in the black vaults. After a moment something about the size of a small

horse hopped out into the grey twilight, and Carter turned sick at the aspect of that scabrous

and unwholesome beast, whose face is so curiously human despite the absence of a nose, a

forehead, and other important particulars.

Presently three other ghasts hopped out to join their fellow, and a ghoul glibbered softly at

Carter that their absence of battle-scars was a bad sign. It proved that they had not fought the

gug sentry at all, but merely slipped past him as he slept, so that their strength and savagery

were still unimpaired and would remain so till they had found and disposed of a victim. It was

very unpleasant to see those filthy and disproportioned animals, which soon numbered about

fifteen, grubbing about and making their kangaroo leaps in the grey twilight where titan towers

and monoliths arose, but it was still more unpleasant when they spoke among themselves in

the coughing gutturals of ghasts. And yet, horrible as they were, they were not so horrible as

what presently came out of the cave after them with disconcerting suddenness.

It was a paw, fully two feet and a half across, and equipped with formidable talons. After it

came another paw, and after that a great black-furred arm to which both of the paws were

attached by short forearms. Then two pink eyes shone, and the head of the awakened gug

sentry, large as a barrel, wobbled into view. The eyes jutted two inches from each side,

shaded by bony protuberances overgrown with coarse hairs. But the head was chiefly terrible

because of the mouth. That mouth had great yellow fangs and ran from the top to the bottom

of the head, opening vertically instead of horizontally.

But before that unfortunate gug could emerge from the cave and rise to his full twenty feet,

the vindictive ghasts were upon him. Carter feared for a moment that he would give an alarm

and arouse all his kin, till a ghoul softly glibbered that gugs have no voice, but talk by means

of facial expression. The battle which then ensued was truly a frightful one. From all sides the

venomous ghasts rushed feverishly at the creeping gug, nipping and tearing with their

muzzles, and mauling murderously with their hard pointed hooves. All the time they coughed

excitedly, screaming when the great vertical mouth of the gug would occasionally bite into one

of their number, so that the noise of the combat would surely have aroused the sleeping city

had not the weakening of the sentry begun to transfer the action farther and farther within the

cavern. As it was, the tumult soon receded altogether from sight in the blackness, with only

occasional evil echoes to mark its continuance.

Then the most alert of the ghouls gave the signal for all to advance, and Carter followed the

loping three out of the forest of monoliths and into the dark noisome streets of that awful city

whose rounded towers of Cyclopean stone soared up beyond the sight. Silently they

shambled over that rough rock pavement, hearing with disgust the abominable muffled

snortings from great black doorways which marked the slumber of the gugs. Apprehensive of

the ending of the rest hour, the ghouls set a somewhat rapid pace; but even so the journey

was no brief one, for distances in that town of giants are on a great scale. At last, however,

they came to a somewhat open space before a tower even vaster than the rest, above whose

colossal doorway was fixed a monstrous symbol in bas-relief which made one shudder

without knowing its meaning. This was the central tower with the sign of Koth, and those huge

stone steps just visible through the dusk within were the beginning of the great flight leading

to upper dreamland and the enchanted wood.

There now began a climb of interminable length in utter blackness; made almost impossible

by the monstrous size of the steps, which were fashioned for gugs, and were therefore nearly

a yard high. Of their number Carter could form no just estimate, for he soon became so worn

out that the tireless and elastic ghouls were forced to aid him. All through the endless climb

there lurked the peril of detection and pursuit; for though no gug dares lift the stone door to

the forest because of the Great Ones‘ curse, there are no such restraints concerning the

tower and the steps, and escaped ghasts are often chased even to the very top. So sharp are

the ears of gugs, that the bare feet and hands of the climbers might readily be heard when the

city awoke; and it would of course take but little time for the striding giants, accustomed from

their ghast-hunts in the vaults of Zin to seeing without light, to overtake their smaller and

slower quarry on those Cyclopean steps. It was very depressing to reflect that the silent

pursuing gugs would not be heard at all, but would come very suddenly and shockingly in the

dark upon the climbers. Nor could the traditional fear of gugs for ghouls be depended upon in

that peculiar place where the advantages lay so heavily with the gugs. There was also some

peril from the furtive and venomous ghasts, which frequently hopped up into the tower during

the sleep hour of the gugs. If the gugs slept long, and the ghasts returned soon from their

deed in the cavern, the scent of the climbers might easily be picked up by those loathsome

and ill-disposed things; in which case it would almost be better to be eaten by a gug.

Then, after aeons of climbing, there came a cough from the darkness above; and matters

assumed a very grave and unexpected turn. It was clear that a ghast, or perhaps even more,

had strayed into that tower before the coming of Carter and his guides; and it was equally

clear that this peril was very close. After a breathless second the leading ghoul pushed Carter

to the wall and arranged his two kinsfolk in the best possible way, with the old slate tombstone

raised for a crushing blow whenever the enemy might come in sight. Ghouls can see in the

dark, so the party was not as badly off as Carter would have been alone. In another moment

the clatter of hooves revealed the downward hopping of at least one beast, and the slab-

bearing ghouls poised their weapon for a desperate blow. Presently two yellowish-red eyes

flashed into view, and the panting of the ghast became audible above its clattering. As it

hopped down to the step just above the ghouls, they wielded the ancient gravestone with

prodigious force, so that there was only a wheeze and a choking before the victim collapsed

in a noxious heap. There seemed to be only this one animal, and after a moment of listening

the ghouls tapped Carter as a signal to proceed again. As before, they were obliged to aid

him; and he was glad to leave that place of carnage where the ghast‘s uncouth remains

sprawled invisible in the blackness.

At last the ghouls brought their companion to a halt; and feeling above him, Carter realised

that the great stone trap-door was reached at last. To open so vast a thing completely was not

to be thought of, but the ghouls hoped to get it up just enough to slip the gravestone under as

a prop, and permit Carter to escape through the crack. They themselves planned to descend

again and return through the city of the gugs, since their elusiveness was great, and they did

not know the way overland to spectral Sarkomand with its lion-guarded gate to the abyss.

Mighty was the straining of those three ghouls at the stone of the door above them, and

Carter helped push with as much strength as he had. They judged the edge next the top of

the staircase to be the right one, and to this they bent all the force of their disreputably

nourished muscles. After a few moments a crack of light appeared; and Carter, to whom that

task had been entrusted, slipped the end of the old gravestone in the aperture. There now

ensued a mighty heaving; but progress was very slow, and they had of course to return to

their first position every time they failed to turn the slab and prop the portal open.

Suddenly their desperation was magnified a thousandfold by a sound on the steps below

them. It was only the thumping and rattling of the slain ghast‘s hooved body as it rolled down

to lower levels; but of all the possible causes of that body‘s dislodgment and rolling, none was

in the least reassuring. Therefore, knowing the ways of gugs, the ghouls set to with something

of a frenzy; and in a surprisingly short time had the door so high that they were able to hold it

still whilst Carter turned the slab and left a generous opening. They now helped Carter

through, letting him climb up to their rubbery shoulders and later guiding his feet as he

clutched at the blessed soil of the upper dreamland outside. Another second and they were

through themselves, knocking away the gravestone and closing the great trap-door while a

panting became audible beneath. Because of the Great Ones‘ curse no gug might ever

emerge from that portal, so with a deep relief and sense of repose Carter lay quietly on the

thick grotesque fungi of the enchanted wood while his guides squatted near in the manner

that ghouls rest.

Weird as was that enchanted wood through which he had fared so long ago, it was verily a

haven and a delight after the gulfs he had now left behind. There was no living denizen about,

for zoogs shun the mysterious door in fear, and Carter at once consulted with his ghouls

about their future course. To return through the tower they no longer dared, and the waking

world did not appeal to them when they learned that they must pass the priests Nasht and

Kaman-Thah in the cavern of flame. So at length they decided to return through Sarkomand

and its gate of the abyss, though of how to get there they knew nothing. Carter recalled that it

lies in the valley below Leng, and recalled likewise that he had seen in Dylath-Leen a sinister,

slant-eyed old merchant reputed to trade on Leng. Therefore he advised the ghouls to seek

out Dylath-Leen, crossing the fields to Nir and the Skai and following the river to its mouth.

This they at once resolved to do, and lost no time in loping off, since the thickening of the

dusk promised a full night ahead for travel. And Carter shook the paws of those repulsive

beasts, thanking them for their help and sending his gratitude to the beast which once was

Pickman; but could not help sighing with pleasure when they left. For a ghoul is a ghoul, and

at best an unpleasant companion for man. After that Carter sought a forest pool and cleansed

himself of the mud of nether earth, thereupon reassuming the clothes he had so carefully

carried.

It was now night in that redoubtable wood of monstrous trees, but because of the

phosphorescence one might travel as well as by day; wherefore Carter set out upon the well-

known route toward Celephaïs, in Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills. And as he went he

thought of the zebra he had left tethered to an ash tree on Ngranek in far-away Oriab so

many aeons ago, and wondered if any lava-gatherer had fed and released it. And he

wondered, too, if he would ever return to Baharna and pay for the zebra that was slain by

night in those ancient ruins by Yath‘s shore, and if the old tavern-keeper would remember

him. Such were the thoughts that came to him in the air of the regained upper dreamland.

But presently his progress was halted by a sound from a very large hollow tree. He had

avoided the great circle of stones, since he did not care to speak with zoogs just now; but it

appeared from the singular fluttering in that huge tree that important councils were in session

elsewhere. Upon drawing nearer he made out the accents of a tense and heated discussion;

and before long became conscious of matters which he viewed with the greatest concern. For

a war on the cats was under debate in that sovereign assembly of zoogs. It all came from the

loss of the party which had sneaked after Carter to Ulthar, and which the cats had justly

punished for unsuitable intentions. The matter had long rankled; and now, or within at least a

month, the marshalled zoogs were about to strike the whole feline tribe in a series of surprise

attacks, taking individual cats or groups of cats unawares, and giving not even the myriad cats

of Ulthar a proper chance to drill and mobilise. This was the plan of the zoogs, and Carter saw

that he must foil it before leaving on his mighty quest.

Very quietly therefore did Randolph Carter steal to the edge of the wood and send the cry of

the cat over the starlit fields. And a great grimalkin in a nearby cottage took up the burden and

relayed it across leagues of rolling meadow to warriors large and small, black, grey, tiger,

white, yellow, and mixed; and it echoed through Nir and beyond the Skai even into Ulthar, and

Ulthar‘s numerous cats called in chorus and fell into a line of march. It was fortunate that the

moon was not up, so that all the cats were on earth. Swiftly and silently leaping, they sprang

from every hearth and housetop and poured in a great furry sea across the plains to the edge

of the wood. Carter was there to greet them, and the sight of shapely, wholesome cats was

indeed good for his eyes after the things he had seen and walked with in the abyss. He was

glad to see his venerable friend and one-time rescuer at the head of Ulthar‘s detachment, a

collar of rank around his sleek neck, and whiskers bristling at a martial angle. Better still, as a

sub-lieutenant in that army was a brisk young fellow who proved to be none other than the

very little kitten at the inn to whom Carter had given a saucer of rich cream on that long-

vanished morning in Ulthar. He was a strapping and promising cat now, and purred as he

shook hands with his friend. His grandfather said he was doing very well in the army, and that

he might well expect a captaincy after one more campaign.

Carter now outlined the peril of the cat tribe, and was rewarded by deep-throated purrs of

gratitude from all sides. Consulting with the generals, he prepared a plan of instant action

which involved marching at once upon the zoog council and other known strongholds of

zoogs; forestalling their surprise attacks and forcing them to terms before the mobilisation of

their army of invasion. Thereupon without a moment‘s loss that great ocean of cats flooded

the enchanted wood and surged around the council tree and the great stone circle. Flutterings

rose to panic pitch as the enemy saw the newcomers, and there was very little resistance

among the furtive and curious brown zoogs. They saw that they were beaten in advance, and

turned from thoughts of vengeance to thoughts of present self-preservation.

Half the cats now seated themselves in a circular formation with the captured zoogs in the

centre, leaving open a lane down which were marched the additional captives rounded up by

the other cats in other parts of the wood. Terms were discussed at length, Carter acting as

interpreter, and it was decided that the zoogs might remain a free tribe on condition of

rendering to the cats a large annual tribute of grouse, quail, and pheasants from the less

fabulous parts of their forest. Twelve young zoogs of noble families were taken as hostages to

be kept in the Temple of the Cats at Ulthar, and the victors made it plain that any

disappearances of cats on the borders of the zoog domain would be followed by

consequences highly disastrous to zoogs. These matters disposed of, the assembled cats

broke ranks and permitted the zoogs to slink off one by one to their respective homes, which

they hastened to do with many a sullen backward glance.

The old cat general now offered Carter an escort through the forest to whatever border he

wished to reach, deeming it likely that the zoogs would harbour dire resentment against him

for the frustration of their warlike enterprise. This offer he welcomed with gratitude; not only

for the safety it afforded, but because he liked the graceful companionship of cats. So in the

midst of a pleasant and playful regiment, relaxed after the successful performance of its duty,

Randolph Carter walked with dignity through that enchanted and phosphorescent wood of

titan trees, talking of his quest with the old general and his grandson whilst others of the band

indulged in fantastic gambols or chased fallen leaves that the wind drove among the fungi of

the primeval floor. And the old cat said that he had heard much of unknown Kadath in the cold

waste, but did not know where it was. As for the marvellous sunset city, he had not even

heard of that, but would gladly relay to Carter anything he might later learn.

He gave the seeker some passwords of great value among the cats of dreamland, and

commended him especially to the old chief of the cats in Celephaïs, whither he was bound.

That old cat, already slightly known to Carter, was a dignified Maltese; and would prove highly

influential in any transaction. It was dawn when they came to the proper edge of the wood,

and Carter bade his friends a reluctant farewell. The young sub-lieutenant he had met as a

small kitten would have followed him had not the old general forbidden it, but that austere

patriarch insisted that the path of duty lay with the tribe and the army. So Carter set out alone

over the golden fields that stretched mysterious beside a willow-fringed river, and the cats

went back into the wood.

Well did the traveller know those garden lands that lie betwixt the wood and the Cerenerian

Sea, and blithely did he follow the singing river Oukranos that marked his course. The sun

rose higher over gentle slopes of grove and lawn, and heightened the colours of the thousand

flowers that starred each knoll and dingle. A blessed haze lies upon all this region, wherein is

held a little more of the sunlight than other places hold, and a little more of the summer‘s

humming music of birds and bees; so that men walk through it as through a faery place, and

feel greater joy and wonder than they ever afterward remember.

By noon Carter reached the jasper terraces of Kiran which slope down to the river‘s edge and

bear that temple of loveliness wherein the King of Ilek-Vad comes from his far realm on the

twilight sea once a year in a golden palanquin to pray to the god of Oukranos, who sang to

him in youth when he dwelt in a cottage by its banks. All of jasper is that temple, and covering

an acre of ground with its walls and courts, its seven pinnacled towers, and its inner shrine

where the river enters through hidden channels and the god sings softly in the night. Many

times the moon hears strange music as it shines on those courts and terraces and pinnacles,

but whether that music be the song of the god or the chant of the cryptical priests, none but

the King of Ilek-Vad may say; for only he has entered the temple or seen the priests. Now, in

the drowsiness of day, that carven and delicate fane was silent, and Carter heard only the

murmur of the great stream and the hum of the birds and bees as he walked onward under an

enchanted sun.

All that afternoon the pilgrim wandered on through perfumed meadows and in the lee of

gentle riverward hills bearing peaceful thatched cottages and the shrines of amiable gods

carven from jasper or chrysoberyl. Sometimes he walked close to the bank of Oukranos and

whistled to the sprightly and iridescent fish of that crystal stream, and at other times he

paused amidst the whispering rushes and gazed at the great dark wood on the farther side,

whose trees came down clear to the water‘s edge. In former dreams he had seen quaint

lumbering buopoths come shyly out of that wood to drink, but now he could not glimpse any.

Once in a while he paused to watch a carnivorous fish catch a fishing bird, which it lured to

the water by shewing its tempting scales in the sun, and grasped by the beak with its

enormous mouth as the winged hunter sought to dart down upon it.

Toward evening he mounted a low grassy rise and saw before him flaming in the sunset the

thousand gilded spires of Thran. Lofty beyond belief are the alabaster walls of that incredible

city, sloping inward toward the top and wrought in one solid piece by what means no man

knows, for they are more ancient than memory. Yet lofty as they are with their hundred gates

and two hundred turrets, the clustered towers within, all white beneath their golden spires, are

loftier still; so that men on the plain around see them soaring into the sky, sometimes shining

clear, sometimes caught at the top in tangles of cloud and mist, and sometimes clouded lower

down with their utmost pinnacles blazing free above the vapours. And where Thran‘s gates

open on the river are great wharves of marble, with ornate galleons of fragrant cedar and

calamander riding gently at anchor, and strange bearded sailors sitting on casks and bales

with the hieroglyphs of far places. Landward beyond the walls lies the farm country, where

small white cottages dream between little hills, and narrow roads with many stone bridges

wind gracefully among streams and gardens.

Down through this verdant land Carter walked at evening, and saw twilight float up from the

river to the marvellous golden spires of Thran. And just at the hour of dusk he came to the

southern gate, and was stopped by a red-robed sentry till he had told three dreams beyond

belief, and proved himself a dreamer worthy to walk up Thran‘s steep mysterious streets and

linger in bazaars where the wares of the ornate galleons were sold. Then into that incredible

city he walked; through a wall so thick that the gate was a tunnel, and thereafter amidst

curved and undulant ways winding deep and narrow between the heavenward towers. Lights

shone through grated and balconied windows, and the sound of lutes and pipes stole timid

from inner courts where marble fountains bubbled. Carter knew his way, and edged down

through darker streets to the river, where at an old sea-tavern he found the captains and

seamen he had known in myriad other dreams. There he bought his passage to Celephaïs on

a great green galleon, and there he stopped for the night after speaking gravely to the

venerable cat of that inn, who blinked dozing before an enormous hearth and dreamed of old

wars and forgotten gods.

In the morning Carter boarded the galleon bound for Celephaïs, and sat in the prow as the

ropes were cast off and the long sail down to the Cerenerian Sea began. For many leagues

the banks were much as they were above Thran, with now and then a curious temple rising

on the farther hills toward the right, and a drowsy village on the shore, with steep red roofs

and nets spread in the sun. Mindful of his search, Carter questioned all the mariners closely

about those whom they had met in the taverns of Celephaïs, asking the names and ways of

the strange men with long, narrow eyes, long-lobed ears, thin noses, and pointed chins who

came in dark ships from the north and traded onyx for the carved jade and spun gold and little

red singing birds of Celephaïs. Of these men the sailors knew not much, save that they talked

but seldom and spread a kind of awe about them.

Their land, very far away, was called Inganok, and not many people cared to go thither

because it was a cold twilight land, and said to be close to unpleasant Leng; although high

impassable mountains towered on the side where Leng was thought to lie, so that none might

say whether this evil plateau with its horrible stone villages and unmentionable monastery

were really there, or whether the rumour were only a fear that timid people felt in the night

when those formidable barrier peaks loomed black against a rising moon. Certainly, men

reached Leng from very different oceans. Of other boundaries of Inganok those sailors had no

notion, nor had they heard of the cold waste and unknown Kadath save from vague unplaced

report. And of the marvellous sunset city which Carter sought they knew nothing at all. So the

traveller asked no more of far things, but bided his time till he might talk with those strange

men from cold and twilight Inganok who are the seed of such gods as carved their features on

Ngranek.

Late in the day the galleon reached those bends of the river which traverse the perfumed

jungles of Kled. Here Carter wished he might disembark, for in those tropic tangles sleep

wondrous palaces of ivory, lone and unbroken, where once dwelt fabulous monarchs of a land

whose name is forgotten. Spells of the Elder Ones keep those places unharmed and

undecayed, for it is written that there may one day be need of them again; and elephant

caravans have glimpsed them from afar by moonlight, though none dares approach them

closely because of the guardians to which their wholeness is due. But the ship swept on, and

dusk hushed the hum of the day, and the first stars above blinked answers to the early fireflies

on the banks as that jungle fell far behind, leaving only its fragrance as a memory that it had

been. And all through the night that galleon floated on past mysteries unseen and

unsuspected. Once a lookout reported fires on the hills to the east, but the sleepy captain said

they had better not be looked at too much, since it was highly uncertain just who or what had

lit them.

In the morning the river had broadened out greatly, and Carter saw by the houses along the

banks that they were close to the vast trading city of Hlanith on the Cerenerian Sea. Here the

walls are of rugged granite, and the houses peakedly fantastic with beamed and plastered

gables. The men of Hlanith are more like those of the waking world than any others in

dreamland; so that the city is not sought except for barter, but is prized for the solid work of its

artisans. The wharves of Hlanith are of oak, and there the galleon made fast while the captain

traded in the taverns. Carter also went ashore, and looked curiously upon the rutted streets

where wooden ox-carts lumbered and feverish merchants cried their wares vacuously in the

bazaars. The sea-taverns were all close to the wharves on cobbled lanes salt with the spray

of high tides, and seemed exceedingly ancient with their low black-beamed ceilings and

casements of greenish bull‘s-eye panes. Ancient sailors in those taverns talked much of

distant ports, and told many stories of the curious men from twilight Inganok, but had little to

add to what the seamen of the galleon had told. Then, at last, after much unloading and

loading, the ship set sail once more over the sunset sea, and the high walls and gables of

Hlanith grew less as the last golden light of day lent them a wonder and beauty beyond any

that men had given them.

Two nights and two days the galleon sailed over the Cerenerian Sea, sighting no land and

speaking but one other vessel. Then near sunset of the second day there loomed up ahead

the snowy peak of Aran with its gingko-trees swaying on the lower slopes, and Carter knew

that they were come to the land of Ooth-Nargai and the marvellous city of Celephaïs. Swiftly

there came into sight the glittering minarets of that fabulous town, and the untarnished marble

walls with their bronze statues, and the great stone bridge where Naraxa joins the sea. Then

rose the green gentle hills behind the town, with their groves and gardens of asphodels and

the small shrines and cottages upon them; and far in the background the purple ridge of the

Tanarians, potent and mystical, behind which lay forbidden ways into the waking world and

toward other regions of dream.

The harbour was full of painted galleys, some of which were from the marble cloud-city of

Serannian, that lies in ethereal space beyond where the sea meets the sky, and some of

which were from more substantial ports on the oceans of dreamland. Among these the

steersman threaded his way up to the spice-fragrant wharves, where the galleon made fast in

the dusk as the city‘s million lights began to twinkle out over the water. Ever new seemed this

deathless city of vision, for here time has no power to tarnish or destroy. As it has always

been is still the turquoise of Nath-Horthath, and the eighty orchid-wreathed priests are the

same who builded it ten thousand years ago. Shining still is the bronze of the great gates, nor

are the onyx pavements ever worn or broken. And the great bronze statues on the walls look

down on merchants and camel drivers older than fable, yet without one grey hair in their

forked beards.

Carter did not at once seek out the temple or the palace or the citadel, but stayed by the

seaward wall among traders and sailors. And when it was too late for rumours and legends he

sought out an ancient tavern he knew well, and rested with dreams of the gods on unknown

Kadath whom he sought. The next day he searched all along the quays for some of the

strange mariners of Inganok, but was told that none were now in port, their galley not being

due from the north for full two weeks. He found, however, one Thorabonian sailor who had

been to Inganok and had worked in the onyx quarries of that twilight place; and this sailor said

there was certainly a desert to the north of the peopled region, which everybody seemed to

fear and shun. The Thorabonian opined that this desert led around the utmost rim of

impassable peaks into Leng‘s horrible plateau, and that this was why men feared it; though he

admitted there were other vague tales of evil presences and nameless sentinels. Whether or

not this could be the fabled waste wherein unknown Kadath stands he did not know; but it

seemed unlikely that those presences and sentinels, if indeed they truly existed, were

stationed for naught.

On the following day Carter walked up the Street of the Pillars to the turquoise temple and

talked with the high-priest. Though Nath-Horthath is chiefly worshipped in Celephaïs, all the

Great Ones are mentioned in diurnal prayers; and the priest was reasonably versed in their

moods. Like Atal in distant Ulthar, he strongly advised against any attempt to see them;

declaring that they are testy and capricious, and subject to strange protection from the

mindless Other Gods from Outside, whose soul and messenger is the crawling chaos

Nyarlathotep. Their jealous hiding of the marvellous sunset city shewed clearly that they did

not wish Carter to reach it, and it was doubtful how they would regard a guest whose object

was to see them and plead before them. No man had ever found Kadath in the past, and it

might be just as well if none ever found it in the future. Such rumours as were told about that

onyx castle of the Great Ones were not by any means reassuring.

Having thanked the orchid-crowned high-priest, Carter left the temple and sought the bazaar

of the sheep-butchers, where the old chief of Celephaïs‘ cats dwelt sleek and contented. That

grey and dignified being was sunning himself on the onyx pavement, and extended a languid

paw as his caller approached. But when Carter repeated the passwords and introductions

furnished him by the old cat general of Ulthar, the furry patriarch became very cordial and

communicative; and told much of the secret lore known to cats on the seaward slopes of

Ooth-Nargai. Best of all, he repeated several things told him furtively by the timid waterfront

cats of Celephaïs about the men of Inganok, on whose dark ships no cat will go.

It seems that these men have an aura not of earth about them, though that is not the reason

why no cat will sail on their ships. The reason for this is that Inganok holds shadows which no

cat can endure, so that in all that cold twilight realm there is never a cheering purr or a homely

mew. Whether it be because of things wafted over the impassable peaks from hypothetical

Leng, or because of things filtering down from the chilly desert to the north, none may say; but

it remains a fact that in that far land there broods a hint of outer space which cats do not like,

and to which they are more sensitive than men. Therefore they will not go on the dark ships

that seek the basalt quays of Inganok.

The old chief of the cats also told him where to find his friend King Kuranes, who in Carter‘s

latter dreams had reigned alternately in the rose-crystal Palace of the Seventy Delights at

Celephaïs and in the turreted cloud-castle of sky-floating Serannian. It seems that he could no

more find content in those places, but had formed a mighty longing for the English cliffs and

downlands of his boyhood; where in little dreaming villages England‘s old songs hover at

evening behind lattice windows, and where grey church towers peep lovely through the

verdure of distant valleys. He could not go back to these things in the waking world because

his body was dead; but he had done the next best thing and dreamed a small tract of such

countryside in the region east of the city, where meadows roll gracefully up from the sea-cliffs

to the foot of the Tanarian Hills. There he dwelt in a grey Gothic manor-house of stone looking

on the sea, and tried to think it was ancient Trevor Towers, where he was born and where

thirteen generations of his forefathers had first seen the light. And on the coast nearby he had

built a little Cornish fishing village with steep cobbled ways, settling therein such people as

had the most English faces, and seeking ever to teach them the dear remembered accents of

old Cornwall fishers. And in a valley not far off he had reared a great Norman Abbey whose

tower he could see from his window, placing around it in the churchyard grey stones with the

names of his ancestors carved thereon, and with a moss somewhat like Old England‘s moss.

For though Kuranes was a monarch in the land of dream, with all imagined pomps and

marvels, splendours and beauties, ecstacies and delights, novelties and excitements at his

command, he would gladly have resigned forever the whole of his power and luxury and

freedom for one blessed day as a simple boy in that pure and quiet England, that ancient,

beloved England which had moulded his being and of which he must always be immutably a

part.

So when Carter bade that old grey chief of the cats adieu, he did not seek the terraced palace

of rose-crystal but walked out the eastern gate and across the daisied fields toward a peaked

gable which he glimpsed through the oaks of a park sloping up to the sea-cliffs. And in time he

came to a great hedge and a gate with a little brick lodge, and when he rang the bell there

hobbled to admit him no robed and anointed lackey of the palace, but a small stubbly old man

in a smock who spoke as best he could in the quaint tones of far Cornwall. And Carter walked

up the shady path between trees as near as possible to England‘s trees, and climbed the

terraces among gardens set out as in Queen Anne‘s time. At the door, flanked by stone cats in

the old way, he was met by a whiskered butler in suitable livery; and was presently taken to

the library where Kuranes, Lord of Ooth-Nargai and the Sky around Serannian, sat pensive in

a chair by the window looking on his little sea-coast village and wishing that his old nurse

would come in and scold him because he was not ready for that hateful lawn-party at the

vicar‘s, with the carriage waiting and his mother nearly out of patience.

Kuranes, clad in a dressing-gown of the sort favoured by London tailors in his youth, rose

eagerly to meet his guest; for the sight of an Anglo-Saxon from the waking world was very

dear to him, even if it was a Saxon from Boston, Massachusetts, instead of from Cornwall.

And for long they talked of old times, having much to say because both were old dreamers

and well versed in the wonders of incredible places. Kuranes, indeed, had been out beyond

the stars in the ultimate void, and was said to be the only one who had ever returned sane

from such a voyage.

At length Carter brought up the subject of his quest, and asked of his host those questions he

had asked of so many others. Kuranes did not know where Kadath was, or the marvellous

sunset city; but he did know that the Great Ones were very dangerous creatures to seek out,

and that the Other Gods had strange ways of protecting them from impertinent curiosity. He

had learned much of the Other Gods in distant parts of space, especially in that region where

form does not exist, and coloured gases study the innermost secrets. The violet gas S‘ngac

had told him terrible things of the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep, and had warned him never to

approach the central void where the daemon-sultan Azathoth gnaws hungrily in the dark.

Altogether, it was not well to meddle with the Elder Ones; and if they persistently denied all

access to the marvellous sunset city, it were better not to seek that city.

Kuranes furthermore doubted whether his guest would profit aught by coming to the city even

were he to gain it. He himself had dreamed and yearned long years for lovely Celephaïs and

the land of Ooth-Nargai, and for the freedom and colour and high experience of life devoid of

its chains, conventions, and stupidities. But now that he was come into that city and that land,

and was the king thereof, he found the freedom and the vividness all too soon worn out, and

monotonous for want of linkage with anything firm in his feelings and memories. He was a

king in Ooth-Nargai, but found no meaning therein, and drooped always for the old familiar

things of England that had shaped his youth. All his kingdom would he give for the sound of

Cornish church bells over the downs, and all the thousand minarets of Celephaïs for the steep

homely roofs of the village near his home. So he told his guest that the unknown sunset city

might not hold quite the content he sought, and that perhaps it had better remain a glorious

and half-remembered dream. For he had visited Carter often in the old waking days, and

knew well the lovely New England slopes that had given him birth.

At the last, he was very certain, the seeker would long only for the early remembered scenes;

the glow of Beacon Hill at evening, the tall steeples and winding hill streets of quaint

Kingsport, the hoary gambrel roofs of ancient and witch-haunted Arkham, and the blessed

miles of meads and valleys where stone walls rambled and white farmhouse gables peeped

out from bowers of verdure. These things he told Randolph Carter, but still the seeker held to

his purpose. And in the end they parted each with his own conviction, and Carter went back

through the bronze gate into Celephaïs and down the Street of the Pillars to the old sea-wall,

where he talked more with the mariners of far parts and waited for the dark ship from cold and

twilight Inganok, whose strange-faced sailors and onyx-traders had in them the blood of the

Great Ones.

One starlight evening when the Pharos shone splendid over the harbour the longed-for ship

put in, and strange-faced sailors and traders appeared one by one and group by group in the

ancient taverns along the sea-wall. It was very exciting to see again those living faces so like

the godlike features on Ngranek, but Carter did not hasten to speak with the silent seamen.

He did not know how much of pride and secrecy and dim supernal memory might fill those

children of the Great Ones, and was sure it would not be wise to tell them of his quest or ask

too closely of that cold desert stretching north of their twilight land. They talked little with the

other folk in those ancient sea-taverns; but would gather in groups in remote corners and sing

among themselves the haunting airs of unknown places, or chant long tales to one another in

accents alien to the rest of dreamland. And so rare and moving were those airs and tales, that

one might guess their wonders from the faces of those who listened, even though the words

came to common ears only as strange cadence and obscure melody.

For a week the strange seamen lingered in the taverns and traded in the bazaars of

Celephaïs, and before they sailed Carter had taken passage on their dark ship, telling them

that he was an old onyx-miner and wishful to work in their quarries. That ship was very lovely

and cunningly wrought, being of teakwood with ebony fittings and traceries of gold, and the

cabin in which the traveller lodged had hangings of silk and velvet. One morning at the turn of

the tide the sails were raised and the anchor lifted, and as Carter stood on the high stern he

saw the sunrise-blazing walls and bronze statues and golden minarets of ageless Celephaïs

sink into the distance, and the snowy peak of Mount Aran grow smaller and smaller. By noon

there was nothing in sight save the gentle blue of the Cerenerian Sea, with one painted galley

afar off bound for that cloud-hung realm of Serannian where the sea meets the sky.

And night came with gorgeous stars, and the dark ship steered for Charles‘ Wain and the

Little Bear as they swung slowly round the pole. And the sailors sang strange songs of

unknown places, and then stole off one by one to the forecastle while the wistful watchers

murmured old chants and leaned over the rail to glimpse the luminous fish playing in bowers

beneath the sea. Carter went to sleep at midnight, and rose in the glow of a young morning,

marking that the sun seemed farther south than was its wont. And all through that second day

he made progress in knowing the men of the ship, getting them little by little to talk of their

cold twilight land, of their exquisite onyx city, and of their fear of the high and impassable

peaks beyond which Leng was said to be. They told him how sorry they were that no cats

would stay in the land of Inganok, and how they thought the hidden nearness of Leng was to

blame for it. Only of the stony desert to the north they would not talk. There was something

disquieting about that desert, and it was thought expedient not to admit its existence.

On later days they talked of the quarries in which Carter said he was going to work. There

were many of them, for all the city of Inganok was builded of onyx, whilst great polished

blocks of it were traded in Rinar, Ogrothan, and Celephaïs, and at home with the merchants

of Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron, for the beautiful wares of those fabulous ports. And far to

the north, almost in that cold desert whose existence the men of Inganok did not care to

admit, there was an unused quarry greater than all the rest; from which had been hewn in

forgotten times such prodigious lumps and blocks that the sight of their chiselled vacancies

struck terror to all who beheld. Who had mined those incredible blocks, and whither they had

been transported, no man might say; but it was thought best not to trouble that quarry, around

which such inhuman memories might conceivably cling. So it was left all alone in the twilight,

with only the raven and the rumoured shantak-bird to brood on its immensities. When Carter

heard of this quarry he was moved to deep thought, for he knew from old tales that the Great

Ones‘ castle atop unknown Kadath is of onyx.

Each day the sun wheeled lower and lower in the sky, and the mists overhead grew thicker

and thicker. And in two weeks there was not any sunlight at all, but only a weird grey twilight

shining through a dome of eternal cloud by day, and a cold starless phosphorescence from

the under side of that cloud by night. On the twentieth day a great jagged rock in the sea was

sighted from afar, the first land glimpsed since Aran‘s snowy peak had dwindled behind the

ship. Carter asked the captain the name of that rock, but was told that it had no name and

had never been sought by any vessel because of the sounds that came from it at night. And

when, after dark, a dull and ceaseless howling arose from that jagged granite place, the

traveller was glad that no stop had been made, and that the rock had no name. The seamen

prayed and chanted till the noise was out of earshot, and Carter dreamed terrible dreams

within dreams in the small hours.

Two mornings after that there loomed far ahead and to the east a line of great grey peaks

whose tops were lost in the changeless clouds of that twilight world. And at the sight of them

the sailors sang glad songs, and some knelt down on the deck to pray; so that Carter knew

they were come to the land of Inganok and would soon be moored to the basalt quays of the

great town bearing that land‘s name. Toward noon a dark coast-line appeared, and before

three o‘clock there stood out against the north the bulbous domes and fantastic spires of the

onyx city. Rare and curious did that archaic city rise above its walls and quays, all of delicate

black with scrolls, flutings, and arabesques of inlaid gold. Tall and many-windowed were the

houses, and carved on every side with flowers and patterns whose dark symmetries dazzled

the eye with a beauty more poignant than light. Some ended in swelling domes that tapered

to a point, others in terraced pyramids whereon rose clustered minarets displaying every

phase of strangeness and imagination. The walls were low, and pierced by frequent gates,

each under a great arch rising high above the general level and capped by the head of a god

chiselled with that same skill displayed in the monstrous face on distant Ngranek. On a hill in

the centre rose a sixteen-angled tower greater than all the rest and bearing a high pinnacled

belfry resting on a flattened dome. This, the seamen said, was the Temple of the Elder Ones,

and was ruled by an old high-priest sad with inner secrets.

At intervals the clang of a strange bell shivered over the onyx city, answered each time by a

peal of mystic music made up of horns, viols, and chanting voices. And from a row of tripods

on a gallery round the high dome of the temple there burst flares of flame at certain moments;

for the priests and people of that city were wise in the primal mysteries, and faithful in keeping

the rhythms of the Great Ones as set forth in scrolls older than the Pnakotic Manuscripts. As

the ship rode past the great basalt breakwater into the harbour the lesser noises of the city

grew manifest, and Carter saw the slaves, sailors, and merchants on the docks. The sailors

and merchants were of the strange-faced race of the gods, but the slaves were squat, slant-

eyed folk said by rumour to have drifted somehow across or around the impassable peaks

from valleys beyond Leng. The wharves reached wide outside the city wall and bore upon

them all manner of merchandise from the galleys anchored there, while at one end were great

piles of onyx both carved and uncarved awaiting shipment to the far markets of Rinar,

Ogrothan, and Celephaïs.

It was not yet evening when the dark ship anchored beside a jutting quay of stone, and all the

sailors and traders filed ashore and through the arched gate into the city. The streets of that

city were paved with onyx, and some of them were wide and straight whilst others were

crooked and narrow. The houses near the water were lower than the rest, and bore above

their curiously arched doorways certain signs of gold said to be in honour of the respective

small gods that favoured each. The captain of the ship took Carter to an old sea-tavern where

flocked the mariners of quaint countries, and promised that he would next day shew him the

wonders of the twilight city, and lead him to the taverns of the onyx-miners by the northern

wall. And evening fell, and little bronze lamps were lighted, and the sailors in that tavern sang

songs of remote places. But when from its high tower the great bell shivered over the city, and

the peal of the horns and viols and voices rose cryptical in answer thereto, all ceased their

songs or tales and bowed silent till the last echo died away. For there is a wonder and a

strangeness on the twilight city of Inganok, and men fear to be lax in its rites lest a doom and

a vengeance lurk unsuspectedly close.

Far in the shadows of that tavern Carter saw a squat form he did not like, for it was

unmistakably that of the old slant-eyed merchant he had seen so long before in the taverns of

Dylath-Leen, who was reputed to trade with the horrible stone villages of Leng which no

healthy folk visit and whose evil fires are seen at night from afar, and even to have dealt with

that high-priest not to be described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and dwells

all alone in a prehistoric stone monastery. This man had seemed to shew a queer gleam of

knowing when Carter asked the traders of Dylath-Leen about the cold waste and Kadath; and

somehow his presence in dark and haunted Inganok, so close to the wonders of the north,

was not a reassuring thing. He slipped wholly out of sight before Carter could speak to him,

and sailors later said that he had come with a yak caravan from some point not well

determined, bearing the colossal and rich-flavoured eggs of the rumoured shantak-bird to

trade for the dexterous jade goblets that merchants brought from Ilarnek.

On the following morning the ship-captain led Carter through the onyx streets of Inganok, dark

under their twilight sky. The inlaid doors and figured house-fronts, carven balconies and

crystal-paned oriels, all gleamed with a sombre and polished loveliness; and now and then a

plaza would open out with black pillars, colonnades, and the statues of curious beings both

human and fabulous. Some of the vistas down long and unbending streets, or through side

alleys and over bulbous domes, spires, and arabesqued roofs, were weird and beautiful

beyond words; and nothing was more splendid than the massive height of the great central

Temple of the Elder Ones with its sixteen carven sides, its flattened dome, and its lofty

pinnacled belfry, overtopping all else, and majestic whatever its foreground. And always to the

east, far beyond the city walls and the leagues of pasture land, rose the gaunt grey sides of

those topless and impassable peaks across which hideous Leng was said to lie.

The captain took Carter to the mighty temple, which is set with its walled garden in a great

round plaza whence the streets go as spokes from a wheel‘s hub. The seven arched gates of

that garden, each having over it a carven face like those on the city‘s gates, are always open;

and the people roam reverently at will down the tiled paths and through the little lanes lined

with grotesque termini and the shrines of modest gods. And there are fountains, pools, and

basins there to reflect the frequent blaze of the tripods on the high balcony, all of onyx and

having in them small luminous fish taken by divers from the lower bowers of ocean. When the

deep clang from the temple‘s belfry shivers over the garden and the city, and the answer of

the horns and viols and voices peals out from the seven lodges by the garden gates, there

issue from the seven doors of the temple long columns of masked and hooded priests in

black, bearing at arm‘s length before them great golden bowls from which a curious steam

rises. And all the seven columns strut peculiarly in single file, legs thrown far forward without

bending the knees, down the walks that lead to the seven lodges, wherein they disappear and

do not appear again. It is said that subterrene paths connect the lodges with the temple, and

that the long files of priests return through them; nor is it unwhispered that deep flights of onyx

steps go down to mysteries that are never told. But only a few are those who hint that the

priests in the masked and hooded columns are not human priests.

Carter did not enter the temple, because none but the Veiled King is permitted to do that. But

before he left the garden the hour of the bell came, and he heard the shivering clang

deafeningly above him, and the wailing of the horns and viols and voices loud from the lodges

by the gates. And down the seven great walks stalked the long files of bowl-bearing priests in

their singular way, giving to the traveller a fear which human priests do not often give. When

the last of them had vanished he left that garden, noting as he did so a spot on the pavement

over which the bowls had passed. Even the ship-captain did not like that spot, and hurried

him on toward the hill whereon the Veiled King‘s palace rises many-domed and marvellous.

The ways to the onyx palace are steep and narrow, all but that broad curving one where the

king and his companions ride on yaks or in yak-drawn chariots. Carter and his guide climbed

up an alley that was all steps, between inlaid walls bearing strange signs in gold, and under

balconies and oriels whence sometimes floated soft strains of music or breaths of exotic

fragrance. Always ahead loomed those titan walls, mighty buttresses, and clustered and

bulbous domes for which the Veiled King‘s palace is famous; and at length they passed under

a great black arch and emerged in the gardens of the monarch‘s pleasure. There Carter

paused in faintness at so much of beauty; for the onyx terraces and colonnaded walks, the

gay parterres and delicate flowering trees espaliered to golden lattices, the brazen urns and

tripods with cunning bas-reliefs, the pedestalled and almost breathing statues of veined black

marble, the basalt-bottomed lagoons and tiled fountains with luminous fish, the tiny temples of

iridescent singing birds atop carven columns, the marvellous scrollwork of the great bronze

gates, and the blossoming vines trained along every inch of the polished walls all joined to

form a sight whose loveliness was beyond reality, and half-fabulous even in the land of

dream. There it shimmered like a vision under that grey twilight sky, with the domed and

fretted magnificence of the palace ahead, and the fantastic silhouette of the distant

impassable peaks on the right. And ever the small birds and the fountains sang, while the

perfume of rare blossoms spread like a veil over that incredible garden. No other human

presence was there, and Carter was glad it was so. Then they turned and descended again

the onyx alley of steps, for the palace itself no visitor may enter; and it is not well to look too

long and steadily at the great central dome, since it is said to house the archaic father of all

the rumoured shantak-birds, and to send out queer dreams to the curious.

After that the captain took Carter to the north quarter of the town, near the Gate of the

Caravans, where are the taverns of the yak-merchants and the onyx-miners. And there, in a

low-ceiled inn of quarrymen, they said farewell; for business called the captain whilst Carter

was eager to talk with miners about the north. There were many men in that inn, and the

traveller was not long in speaking to some of them; saying that he was an old miner of onyx,

and anxious to know somewhat of Inganok‘s quarries. But all that he learnt was not much

more than he knew before, for the miners were timid and evasive about the cold desert to the

north and the quarry that no man visits. They had fears of fabled emissaries from around the

mountains where Leng is said to lie, and of evil presences and nameless sentinels far north

among the scattered rocks. And they whispered also that the rumoured shantak-birds are no

wholesome things; it being indeed for the best that no man has ever truly seen one (for that

fabled father of shantaks in the king‘s dome is fed in the dark).

The next day, saying that he wished to look over all the various mines for himself and to visit

the scattered farms and quaint onyx villages of Inganok, Carter hired a yak and stuffed great

leathern saddle-bags for a journey. Beyond the Gate of the Caravans the road lay straight

betwixt tilled fields, with many odd farmhouses crowned by low domes. At some of these

houses the seeker stopped to ask questions; once finding a host so austere and reticent, and

so full of an unplaced majesty like to that in the huge features on Ngranek, that he felt certain

he had come at last upon one of the Great Ones themselves, or upon one with full nine-tenths

of their blood, dwelling amongst men. And to that austere and reticent cotter he was careful to

speak very well of the gods, and to praise all the blessings they had ever accorded him.

That night Carter camped in a roadside meadow beneath a great lygath-tree to which he tied

his yak, and in the morning resumed his northward pilgrimage. At about ten o‘clock he

reached the small-domed village of Urg, where traders rest and miners tell their tales, and

paused in its taverns till noon. It is here that the great caravan road turns west toward Selarn,

but Carter kept on north by the quarry road. All the afternoon he followed that rising road,

which was somewhat narrower than the great highway, and which now led through a region

with more rocks than tilled fields. And by evening the low hills on his left had risen into

sizeable black cliffs, so that he knew he was close to the mining country. All the while the

great gaunt sides of the impassable mountains towered afar off at his right, and the farther he

went, the worse tales he heard of them from the scattered farmers and traders and drivers of

lumbering onyx-carts along the way.

On the second night he camped in the shadow of a large black crag, tethering his yak to a

stake driven in the ground. He observed the greater phosphorescence of the clouds at this

northerly point, and more than once thought he saw dark shapes outlined against them. And

on the third morning he came in sight of the first onyx quarry, and greeted the men who there

laboured with picks and chisels. Before evening he had passed eleven quarries; the land

being here given over altogether to onyx cliffs and boulders, with no vegetation at all, but only

great rocky fragments scattered about a floor of black earth, with the grey impassable peaks

always rising gaunt and sinister on his right. The third night he spent in a camp of quarry men

whose flickering fires cast weird reflections on the polished cliffs to the west. And they sang

many songs and told many tales, shewing such strange knowledge of the olden days and the

habits of gods that Carter could see they held many latent memories of their sires the Great

Ones. They asked him whither he went, and cautioned him not to go too far to the north; but

he replied that he was seeking new cliffs of onyx, and would take no more risks than were

common among prospectors. In the morning he bade them adieu and rode on into the

darkening north, where they had warned him he would find the feared and unvisited quarry

whence hands older than men‘s hands had wrenched prodigious blocks. But he did not like it

when, turning back to wave a last farewell, he thought he saw approaching the camp that

squat and evasive old merchant with slanting eyes, whose conjectured traffick with Leng was

the gossip of distant Dylath-Leen.

After two more quarries the inhabited part of Inganok seemed to end, and the road narrowed

to a steeply rising yak-path among forbidding black cliffs. Always on the right towered the

gaunt and distant peaks, and as Carter climbed farther and farther into this untraversed realm

he found it grew darker and colder. Soon he perceived that there were no prints of feet or

hooves on the black path beneath, and realised that he was indeed come into strange and

deserted ways of elder time. Once in a while a raven would croak far overhead, and now and

then a flapping behind some vast rock would make him think uncomfortably of the rumoured

shantak-bird. But in the main he was alone with his shaggy steed, and it troubled him to

observe that this excellent yak become more and more reluctant to advance, and more and

more disposed to snort affrightedly at any small noise along the route.

The path now contracted between sable and glistening walls, and began to display an even

greater steepness than before. It was a bad footing, and the yak often slipped on the stony

fragments strown thickly about. In two hours Carter saw ahead a definite crest, beyond which

was nothing but dull grey sky, and blessed the prospect of a level or downward course. To

reach this crest, however, was no easy task; for the way had grown nearly perpendicular, and

was perilous with loose black gravel and small stones. Eventually Carter dismounted and led

his dubious yak; pulling very hard when the animal balked or stumbled, and keeping his own

footing as best he might. Then suddenly he came to the top and saw beyond, and gasped at

what he saw.

The path indeed led straight ahead and slightly down, with the same lines of high natural

walls as before; but on the left hand there opened out a monstrous space, vast acres in

extent, where some archaic power had riven and rent the native cliffs of onyx in the form of a

giants‘ quarry. Far back into the solid precipice ran that Cyclopean gouge, and deep down

within earth‘s bowels its lower delvings yawned. It was no quarry of man, and the concave

sides were scarred with great squares yards wide which told of the size of the blocks once

hewn by nameless hands and chisels. High over its jagged rim huge ravens flapped and

croaked, and vague whirrings in the unseen depths told of bats or urhags or less mentionable

presences haunting the endless blackness. There Carter stood in the narrow way amidst the

twilight with the rocky path sloping down before him; tall onyx cliffs on his right that led on as

far as he could see, and tall cliffs on the left chopped off just ahead to make that terrible and

unearthly quarry.

All at once the yak uttered a cry and burst from his control, leaping past him and darting on in

a panic till it vanished down the narrow slope toward the north. Stones kicked by its flying

hooves fell over the brink of the quarry and lost themselves in the dark without any sound of

striking bottom; but Carter ignored the perils of that scanty path as he raced breathlessly after

the flying steed. Soon the left-hand cliffs resumed their course, making the way once more a

narrow lane; and still the traveller leaped on after the yak whose great wide prints told of its

desperate flight.

Once he thought he heard the hoofbeats of the frightened beast, and doubled his speed from

this encouragement. He was covering miles, and little by little the way was broadening in front

till he knew he must soon emerge on the cold and dreaded desert to the north. The gaunt

grey flanks of the distant impassable peaks were again visible above the right-hand crags,

and ahead were the rocks and boulders of an open space which was clearly a foretaste of the

dark and limitless plain. And once more those hoofbeats sounded in his ears, plainer than

before, but this time giving terror instead of encouragement because he realised that they

were not the frightened hoofbeats of his fleeing yak. These beats were ruthless and

purposeful, and they were behind him.

Carter‘s pursuit of the yak became now a flight from an unseen thing, for though he dared not

glance over his shoulder he felt that the presence behind him could be nothing wholesome or

mentionable. His yak must have heard or felt it first, and he did not like to ask himself whether

it had followed him from the haunts of men or had floundered up out of that black quarry pit.

Meanwhile the cliffs had been left behind, so that the oncoming night fell over a great waste of

sand and spectral rocks wherein all paths were lost. He could not see the hoofprints of his

yak, but always from behind him there came that detestable clopping; mingled now and then

with what he fancied were titanic flappings and whirrings. That he was losing ground seemed

unhappily clear to him, and he knew he was hopelessly lost in this broken and blasted desert

of meaningless rocks and untravelled sands. Only those remote and impassable peaks on the

right gave him any sense of direction, and even they were less clear as the grey twilight

waned and the sickly phosphorescence of the clouds took its place.

Then dim and misty in the darkling north before him he glimpsed a terrible thing. He had

thought it for some moments a range of black mountains, but now he saw it was something

more. The phosphorescence of the brooding clouds shewed it plainly, and even silhouetted

parts of it as low vapours glowed behind. How distant it was he could not tell, but it must have

been very far. It was thousands of feet high, stretching in a great concave arc from the grey

impassable peaks to the unimagined westward spaces, and had once indeed been a ridge of

mighty onyx hills. But now those hills were hills no more, for some hand greater than man‘s

had touched them. Silent they squatted there atop the world like wolves or ghouls, crowned

with clouds and mists and guarding the secrets of the north forever. All in a great half circle

they squatted, those dog-like mountains carven into monstrous watching statues, and their

right hands were raised in menace against mankind.

It was only the flickering light of the clouds that made their mitred double heads seem to

move, but as Carter stumbled on he saw arise from their shadowy laps great forms whose

motions were no delusion. Winged and whirring, those forms grew larger each moment, and

the traveller knew his stumbling was at an end. They were not any birds or bats known

elsewhere on earth or in dreamland, for they were larger than elephants and had heads like a

horse‘s. Carter knew that they must be the shantak-birds of ill rumour, and wondered no more

what evil guardians and nameless sentinels made men avoid the boreal rock desert. And as

he stopped in final resignation he dared at last to look behind him; where indeed was trotting

the squat slant-eyed trader of evil legend, grinning astride a lean yak and leading on a

noxious horde of leering shantaks to whose wings still clung the rime and nitre of the nether

pits.

Trapped though he was by fabulous and hippocephalic winged nightmares that pressed

around in great unholy circles, Randolph Carter did not lose consciousness. Lofty and horrible

those titan gargoyles towered above him, while the slant-eyed merchant leaped down from

his yak and stood grinning before the captive. Then the man motioned Carter to mount one of

the repugnant shantaks, helping him up as his judgment struggled with his loathing. It was

hard work ascending, for the shantak-bird has scales instead of feathers, and those scales

are very slippery. Once he was seated, the slant-eyed man hopped up behind him, leaving

the lean yak to be led away northward toward the ring of carven mountains by one of the

incredible bird colossi.

There now followed a hideous whirl through frigid space, endlessly up and eastward toward

the gaunt grey flanks of those impassable mountains beyond which Leng was said to lie. Far

above the clouds they flew, till at last there lay beneath them those fabled summits which the

folk of Inganok have never seen, and which lie always in high vortices of gleaming mist.

Carter beheld them very plainly as they passed below, and saw upon their topmost peaks

strange caves which made him think of those on Ngranek; but he did not question his captor

about these things when he noticed that both the man and the horse-headed shantak

appeared oddly fearful of them, hurrying past nervously and shewing great tension until they

were left far in the rear.

The shantak now flew lower, revealing beneath the canopy of cloud a grey barren plain

whereon at great distances shone little feeble fires. As they descended there appeared at

intervals lone huts of granite and bleak stone villages whose tiny windows glowed with pallid

light. And there came from those huts and villages a shrill droning of pipes and a nauseous

rattle of crotala which proved at once that Inganok‘s people are right in their geographick

rumours. For travellers have heard such sounds before, and know that they float only from the

cold desert plateau which healthy folk never visit; that haunted place of evil and mystery

which is Leng.

Around the feeble fires dark forms were dancing, and Carter was curious as to what manner

of beings they might be; for no healthy folk have ever been to Leng, and the place is known

only by its fires and stone huts as seen from afar. Very slowly and awkwardly did those forms

leap, and with an insane twisting and bending not good to behold; so that Carter did not

wonder at the monstrous evil imputed to them by vague legend, or the fear in which all

dreamland holds their abhorrent frozen plateau. As the shantak flew lower, the repulsiveness

of the dancers became tinged with a certain hellish familiarity; and the prisoner kept straining

his eyes and racking his memory for clues to where he had seen such creatures before.

They leaped as though they had hooves instead of feet, and seemed to wear a sort of wig or

headpiece with small horns. Of other clothing they had none, but most of them were quite

furry. Behind they had dwarfish tails, and when they glanced upward he saw the excessive

width of their mouths. Then he knew what they were, and that they did not wear any wigs or

headpieces after all. For the cryptic folk of Leng were of one race with the uncomfortable

merchants of the black galleys that traded rubies at Dylath-Leen; those not quite human

merchants who are the slaves of the monstrous moon-things! They were indeed the same

dark folk who had shanghaied Carter on their noisome galley so long ago, and whose kith he

had seen driven in herds about the unclean wharves of that accursed lunar city, with the

leaner ones toiling and the fatter ones taken away in crates for other needs of their polypous

and amorphous masters. Now he saw where such ambiguous creatures came from, and

shuddered at the thought that Leng must be known to these formless abominations from the

moon.

But the shantak flew on past the fires and the stone huts and the less than human dancers,

and soared over sterile hills of grey granite and dim wastes of rock and ice and snow. Day

came, and the phosphorescence of low clouds gave place to the misty twilight of that northern

world, and still the vile bird winged meaningly through the cold and silence. At times the slant-

eyed man talked with his steed in a hateful and guttural language, and the shantak would

answer with tittering tones that rasped like the scratching of ground glass. All this while the

land was getting higher, and finally they came to a windswept table-land which seemed the

very roof of a blasted and tenantless world. There, all alone in the hush and the dusk and the

cold, rose the uncouth stones of a squat windowless building, around which a circle of crude

monoliths stood. In all this arrangement there was nothing human, and Carter surmised from

old tales that he was indeed come to that most dreadful and legendary of all places, the

remote and prehistoric monastery wherein dwells uncompanioned the high-priest not to be

described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face and prays to the Other Gods and

their crawling chaos Nyarlathotep.

The loathsome bird now settled to the ground, and the slant-eyed man hopped down and

helped his captive alight. Of the purpose of his seizure Carter now felt very sure; for clearly

the slant-eyed merchant was an agent of the darker powers, eager to drag before his masters

a mortal whose presumption had aimed at the finding of unknown Kadath and the saying of a

prayer before the faces of the Great Ones in their onyx castle. It seemed likely that this

merchant had caused his former capture by the slaves of the moon-things in Dylath-Leen,

and that he now meant to do what the rescuing cats had baffled; taking the victim to some

dread rendezvous with monstrous Nyarlathotep and telling with what boldness the seeking of

unknown Kadath had been tried. Leng and the cold waste north of Inganok must be close to

the Other Gods, and there the passes to Kadath are well guarded.

The slant-eyed man was small, but the great hippocephalic bird was there to see he was

obeyed; so Carter followed where he led, and passed within the circle of standing rocks and

into the low arched doorway of that windowless stone monastery. There were no lights inside,

but the evil merchant lit a small clay lamp bearing morbid bas-reliefs and prodded his prisoner

on through mazes of narrow winding corridors. On the walls of the corridors were painted

frightful scenes older than history, and in a style unknown to the archaeologists of earth. After

countless aeons their pigments were brilliant still, for the cold and dryness of hideous Leng

keep alive many primal things. Carter saw them fleetingly in the rays of that dim and moving

lamp, and shuddered at the tale they told.

Through those archaic frescoes Leng‘s annals stalked; and the horned, hooved, and wide-

mouthed almost-humans danced evilly amidst forgotten cities. There were scenes of old wars,

wherein Leng‘s almost-humans fought with the bloated purple spiders of the neighbouring

vales; and there were scenes also of the coming of the black galleys from the moon, and of

the submission of Leng‘s people to the polypous and amorphous blasphemies that hopped

and floundered and wriggled out of them. Those slippery greyish-white blasphemies they

worshipped as gods, nor ever complained when scores of their best and fatted males were

taken away in the black galleys. The monstrous moon-beasts made their camp on a jagged

isle in the sea, and Carter could tell from the frescoes that this was none other than the lone

nameless rock he had seen when sailing to Inganok; that grey accursed rock which Inganok‘s

seamen shun, and from which vile howlings reverberate all through the night.

And in those frescoes was shewn the great seaport and capital of the almost-humans; proud

and pillared betwixt the cliffs and the basalt wharves, and wondrous with high fanes and

carven places. Great gardens and columned streets led from the cliffs and from each of the

six sphinx-crowned gates to a vast central plaza, and in that plaza was a pair of winged

colossal lions guarding the top of a subterrene staircase. Again and again were those huge

winged lions shewn, their mighty flanks of diorite glistening in the grey twilight of the day and

the cloudy phosphorescence of the night. And as Carter stumbled past their frequent and

repeated pictures it came to him at last what indeed they were, and what city it was that the

almost-humans had ruled so anciently before the coming of the black galleys. There could be

no mistake, for the legends of dreamland are generous and profuse. Indubitably that primal

city was no less a place than storied Sarkomand, whose ruins had bleached for a million

years before the first true human saw the light, and whose twin titan lions guard eternally the

steps that lead down from dreamland to the Great Abyss.

Other views shewed the gaunt grey peaks dividing Leng from Inganok, and the monstrous

shantak-birds that build nests on the ledges half way up. And they shewed likewise the

curious caves near the very topmost pinnacles, and how even the boldest of the shantaks fly

screaming away from them. Carter had seen those caves when he passed over them, and

had noticed their likeness to the caves on Ngranek. Now he knew that the likeness was more

than a chance one, for in these pictures were shewn their fearsome denizens; and those bat-

wings, curving horns, barbed tails, prehensile paws, and rubbery bodies were not strange to

him. He had met those silent, flitting, and clutching creatures before; those mindless

guardians of the Great Abyss whom even the Great Ones fear, and who own not Nyarlathotep

but hoary Nodens as their lord. For they were the dreaded night-gaunts, who never laugh or

smile because they have no faces, and who flop unendingly in the dark betwixt the Vale of

Pnath and the passes to the outer world.

The slant-eyed merchant had now prodded Carter into a great domed space whose walls

were carved in shocking bas-reliefs, and whose centre held a gaping circular pit surrounded

by six malignly stained stone altars in a ring. There was no light in this vast and evil-smelling

crypt, and the small lamp of the sinister merchant shone so feebly that one could grasp

details only little by little. At the farther end was a high stone dais reached by five steps; and

there on a golden throne sat a lumpish figure robed in yellow silk figured with red and having

a yellow silken mask over its face. To this being the slant-eyed man made certain signs with

his hands, and the lurker in the dark replied by raising a disgustingly carven flute of ivory in

silk-covered paws and blowing certain loathsome sounds from beneath its flowing yellow

mask. This colloquy went on for some time, and to Carter there was something sickeningly

familiar in the sound of that flute and the stench of the malodorous place. It made him think of

a frightful red-litten city and of the revolting procession that once filed through it; of that, and

of an awful climb through lunar countryside beyond, before the rescuing rush of earth‘s

friendly cats. He knew that the creature on the dais was without doubt the high-priest not to

be described, of which legend whispers such fiendish and abnormal possibilities, but he

feared to think just what that abhorred high-priest might be.

Then the figured silk slipped a trifle from one of the greyish-white paws, and Carter knew what

the noisome high-priest was. And in that hideous second stark fear drove him to something

his reason would never have dared to attempt, for in all his shaken consciousness there was

room only for one frantic will to escape from what squatted on that golden throne. He knew

that hopeless labyrinths of stone lay betwixt him and the cold table-land outside, and that

even on that table-land the noxious shantak still waited; yet in spite of all this there was in his

mind only the instant need to get away from that wriggling, silk-robed monstrosity.

The slant-eyed man had set his curious lamp upon one of the high and wickedly stained altar-

stones by the pit, and had moved forward somewhat to talk to the high-priest with his hands.

Carter, hitherto wholly passive, now gave that man a terrific push with all the wild strength of

fear, so that the victim toppled at once into that gaping well which rumour holds to reach down

to the hellish Vaults of Zin where gugs hunt ghasts in the dark. In almost the same second he

seized the lamp from the altar and darted out into the frescoed labyrinths, racing this way and

that as chance determined and trying not to think of the stealthy padding of shapeless paws

on the stones behind him, or of the silent wrigglings and crawlings which must be going on

back there in lightless corridors.

After a few moments he regretted his thoughtless haste, and wished he had tried to follow

backward the frescoes he had passed on the way in. True, they were so confused and

duplicated that they could not have done him much good, but he wished none the less he had

made the attempt. Those he now saw were even more horrible than those he had seen then,

and he knew he was not in the corridors leading outside. In time he became quite sure he

was not followed, and slackened his pace somewhat; but scarce had he breathed in half-relief

when a new peril beset him. His lamp was waning, and he would soon be in pitch blackness

with no means of sight or guidance.

When the light was all gone he groped slowly in the dark, and prayed to the Great Ones for

such help as they might afford. At times he felt the stone floor sloping up or down, and once

he stumbled over a step for which no reason seemed to exist. The farther he went the damper

it seemed to be, and when he was able to feel a junction or the mouth of a side passage he

always chose the way which sloped downward the least. He believed, though, that his general

course was down; and the vault-like smell and incrustations on the greasy walls and floor

alike warned him he was burrowing deep in Leng‘s unwholesome table-land. But there was

not any warning of the thing which came at last; only the thing itself with its terror and shock

and breath-taking chaos. One moment he was groping slowly over the slippery floor of an

almost level place, and the next he was shooting dizzily downward in the dark through a

burrow which must have been well-nigh vertical.

Of the length of that hideous sliding he could never be sure, but it seemed to take hours of

delirious nausea and ecstatic frenzy. Then he realised he was still, with the phosphorescent

clouds of a northern night shining sickly above him. All around were crumbling walls and

broken columns, and the pavement on which he lay was pierced by straggling grass and

wrenched asunder by frequent shrubs and roots. Behind him a basalt cliff rose topless and

perpendicular; its dark side sculptured into repellent scenes, and pierced by an arched and

carven entrance to the inner blacknesses out of which he had come. Ahead stretched double

rows of pillars, and the fragments and pedestals of pillars, that spoke of a broad and bygone

street; and from the urns and basins along the way he knew it had been a great street of

gardens. Far off at its end the pillars spread to mark a vast round plaza, and in that open

circle there loomed gigantic under the lurid night clouds a pair of monstrous things. Huge

winged lions of diorite they were, with blackness and shadow between them. Full twenty feet

they reared their grotesque and unbroken heads, and snarled derisive on the ruins around

them. And Carter knew right well what they must be, for legend tells of only one such twain.

They were the changeless guardians of the Great Abyss, and these dark ruins were in truth

primordial Sarkomand.

Carter‘s first act was to close and barricade the archway in the cliff with fallen blocks and odd

debris that lay around. He wished no follower from Leng‘s hateful monastery, for along the

way ahead would lurk enough of other dangers. Of how to get from Sarkomand to the

peopled parts of dreamland he knew nothing at all; nor could he gain much by descending to

the grottoes of the ghouls, since he knew they were no better informed than he. The three

ghouls which had helped him through the city of gugs to the outer world had not known how

to reach Sarkomand in their journey back, but had planned to ask old traders in Dylath-Leen.

He did not like to think of going again to the subterrene world of gugs and risking once more

that hellish tower of Koth with its Cyclopean steps leading to the enchanted wood, yet he felt

he might have to try this course if all else failed. Over Leng‘s plateau past the lone monastery

he dared not go unaided; for the high-priest‘s emissaries must be many, while at the journey‘s

end there would no doubt be the shantaks and perhaps other things to deal with. If he could

get a boat he might sail back to Inganok past the jagged and hideous rock in the sea, for the

primal frescoes in the monastery labyrinth had shewn that this frightful place lies not far from

Sarkomand‘s basalt quays. But to find a boat in this aeon-deserted city was no probable

thing, and it did not appear likely that he could ever make one.

Such were the thoughts of Randolph Carter when a new impression began beating upon his

mind. All this while there had stretched before him the great corpse-like width of fabled

Sarkomand with its black broken pillars and crumbling sphinx-crowned gates and titan stones

and monstrous winged lions against the sickly glow of those luminous night clouds. Now he

saw far ahead and on the right a glow that no clouds could account for, and knew he was not

alone in the silence of that dead city. The glow rose and fell fitfully, flickering with a greenish

tinge which did not reassure the watcher. And when he crept closer, down the littered street

and through some narrow gaps between tumbled walls, he perceived that it was a campfire

near the wharves with many vague forms clustered darkly around it, and a lethal odour

hanging heavily over all. Beyond was the oily lapping of the harbour water with a great ship

riding at anchor, and Carter paused in stark terror when he saw that the ship was indeed one

of the dreaded black galleys from the moon.

Then, just as he was about to creep back from that detestable flame, he saw a stirring among

the vague dark forms and heard a peculiar and unmistakable sound. It was the frightened

meeping of a ghoul, and in a moment it had swelled to a veritable chorus of anguish. Secure

as he was in the shadow of monstrous ruins, Carter allowed his curiosity to conquer his fear,

and crept forward again instead of retreating. Once in crossing an open street he wriggled

worm-like on his stomach, and in another place he had to rise to his feet to avoid making a

noise among heaps of fallen marble. But always he succeeded in avoiding discovery, so that

in a short time he had found a spot behind a titan pillar whence he could watch the whole

green-litten scene of action. There, around a hideous fire fed by the obnoxious stems of lunar

fungi, there squatted a stinking circle of the toad-like moon-beasts and their almost-human

slaves. Some of these slaves were heating curious iron spears in the leaping flames, and at

intervals applying their white-hot points to three tightly trussed prisoners that lay writhing

before the leaders of the party. From the motions of their tentacles Carter could see that the

blunt-snouted moon-beasts were enjoying the spectacle hugely, and vast was his horror when

he suddenly recognised the frantic meeping and knew that the tortured ghouls were none

other than the faithful trio which had guided him safely from the abyss and had thereafter set

out from the enchanted wood to find Sarkomand and the gate to their native deeps.

The number of malodorous moon-beasts about that greenish fire was very great, and Carter

saw that he could do nothing now to save his former allies. Of how the ghouls had been

captured he could not guess; but fancied that the grey toad-like blasphemies had heard them

inquire in Dylath-Leen concerning the way to Sarkomand and had not wished them to

approach so closely the hateful plateau of Leng and the high-priest not to be described. For a

moment he pondered on what he ought to do, and recalled how near he was to the gate of

the ghouls‘ black kingdom. Clearly it was wisest to creep east to the plaza of twin lions and

descend at once to the gulf, where assuredly he would meet no horrors worse than those

above, and where he might soon find ghouls eager to rescue their brethren and perhaps to

wipe out the moon-beasts from the black galley. It occurred to him that the portal, like other

gates to the abyss, might be guarded by flocks of night-gaunts; but he did not fear these

faceless creatures now. He had learned that they are bound by solemn treaties with the

ghouls, and the ghoul which was Pickman had taught him how to glibber a password they

understood.

So Carter began another silent crawl through the ruins, edging slowly toward the great central

plaza and the winged lions. It was ticklish work, but the moon-beasts were pleasantly busy

and did not hear the slight noises which he twice made by accident among the scattered

stones. At last he reached the open space and picked his way among the stunted trees and

briers that had grown up therein. The gigantic lions loomed terrible above him in the sickly

glow of the phosphorescent night clouds, but he manfully persisted toward them and

presently crept round to their faces, knowing it was on that side he would find the mighty

darkness which they guard. Ten feet apart crouched the mocking-faced beasts of diorite,

brooding on Cyclopean pedestals whose sides were chiselled into fearsome bas-reliefs.

Betwixt them was a tiled court with a central space which had once been railed with balusters

of onyx. Midway in this space a black well opened, and Carter soon saw that he had indeed

reached the yawning gulf whose crusted and mouldy stone steps lead down to the crypts of

nightmare.

Terrible is the memory of that dark descent, in which hours wore themselves away whilst

Carter wound sightlessly round and round down a fathomless spiral of steep and slippery

stairs. So worn and narrow were the steps, and so greasy with the ooze of inner earth, that

the climber never quite knew when to expect a breathless fall and hurtling down to the

ultimate pits; and he was likewise uncertain just when or how the guardian night-gaunts would

suddenly pounce upon him, if indeed there were any stationed in this primeval passage. All

about him was a stifling odour of nether gulfs, and he felt that the air of these choking depths

was not made for mankind. In time he became very numb and somnolent, moving more from

automatic impulse than from reasoned will; nor did he realise any change when he stopped

moving altogether as something quietly seized him from behind. He was flying very rapidly

through the air before a malevolent tickling told him that the rubbery night-gaunts had

performed their duty.

Awaked to the fact that he was in the cold, damp clutch of the faceless flutterers, Carter

remembered the password of the ghouls and glibbered it as loudly as he could amidst the

wind and chaos of flight. Mindless though night-gaunts are said to be, the effect was

instantaneous; for all tickling stopped at once, and the creatures hastened to shift their captive

to a more comfortable position. Thus encouraged, Carter ventured some explanations; telling

of the seizure and torture of three ghouls by the moon-beasts, and of the need of assembling

a party to rescue them. The night-gaunts, though inarticulate, seemed to understand what

was said; and shewed greater haste and purpose in their flight. Suddenly the dense

blackness gave place to the grey twilight of inner earth, and there opened up ahead one of

those flat sterile plains on which ghouls love to squat and gnaw. Scattered tombstones and

osseous fragments told of the denizens of that place; and as Carter gave a loud meep of

urgent summons, a score of burrows emptied forth their leathery, dog-like tenants. The night-

gaunts now flew low and set their passenger upon his feet, afterward withdrawing a little and

forming a hunched semicircle on the ground while the ghouls greeted the newcomer.

Carter glibbered his message rapidly and explicitly to the grotesque company, and four of

them at once departed through different burrows to spread the news to others and gather

such troops as might be available for the rescue. After a long wait a ghoul of some importance

appeared, and made significant signs to the night-gaunts, causing two of the latter to fly off

into the dark. Thereafter there were constant accessions to the hunched flock of night-gaunts

on the plain, till at length the slimy soil was fairly black with them. Meanwhile fresh ghouls

crawled out of the burrows one by one, all glibbering excitedly and forming in crude battle

array not far from the huddled night-gaunts. In time there appeared that proud and influential

ghoul which was once the artist Richard Pickman of Boston, and to him Carter glibbered a

very full account of what had occurred. The erstwhile Pickman, surprised to greet his ancient

friend again, seemed very much impressed, and held a conference with other chiefs a little

apart from the growing throng.

Finally, after scanning the ranks with care, the assembled chiefs all meeped in unison and

began glibbering orders to the crowds of ghouls and night-gaunts. A large detachment of the

horned flyers vanished at once, while the rest grouped themselves two by two on their knees

with extended fore legs, awaiting the approach of the ghouls one by one. As each ghoul

reached the pair of night-gaunts to which he was assigned, he was taken up and borne away

into the blackness; till at last the whole throng had vanished save for Carter, Pickman, and the

other chiefs, and a few pairs of night-gaunts. Pickman explained that night-gaunts are the

advance guard and battle steeds of the ghouls, and that the army was issuing forth to

Sarkomand to deal with the moon-beasts. Then Carter and the ghoulish chiefs approached

the waiting bearers and were taken up by the damp, slippery paws. Another moment and all

were whirling in wind and darkness; endlessly up, up, up to the gate of the winged lions and

the spectral ruins of primal Sarkomand.

When, after a great interval, Carter saw again the sickly light of Sarkomand‘s nocturnal sky, it

was to behold the great central plaza swarming with militant ghouls and night-gaunts. Day, he

felt sure, must be almost due; but so strong was the army that no surprise of the enemy would

be needed. The greenish flare near the wharves still glimmered faintly, though the absence of

ghoulish meeping shewed that the torture of the prisoners was over for the nonce. Softly

glibbering directions to their steeds, and to the flock of riderless night-gaunts ahead, the

ghouls presently rose in wide whirring columns and swept on over the bleak ruins toward the

evil flame. Carter was now beside Pickman in the front rank of ghouls, and saw as they

approached the noisome camp that the moon-beasts were totally unprepared. The three

prisoners lay bound and inert beside the fire, while their toad-like captors slumped drowsily

about in no certain order. The almost-human slaves were asleep, even the sentinels shirking

a duty which in this realm must have seemed to them merely perfunctory.

The final swoop of the night-gaunts and mounted ghouls was very sudden, each of the

greyish toad-like blasphemies and their almost-human slaves being seized by a group of

night-gaunts before a sound was made. The moon-beasts, of course, were voiceless; and

even the slaves had little chance to scream before rubbery paws choked them into silence.

Horrible were the writhings of those great jellyish abnormalities as the sardonic night-gaunts

clutched them, but nothing availed against the strength of those black prehensile talons.

When a moon-beast writhed too violently, a night-gaunt would seize and pull its quivering pink

tentacles; which seemed to hurt so much that the victim would cease its struggles. Carter

expected to see much slaughter, but found that the ghouls were far subtler in their plans.

They glibbered certain simple orders to the night-gaunts which held the captives, trusting the

rest to instinct; and soon the hapless creatures were borne silently away into the Great Abyss,

to be distributed impartially amongst the bholes, gugs, ghasts, and other dwellers in darkness

whose modes of nourishment are not painless to their chosen victims. Meanwhile the three

bound ghouls had been released and consoled by their conquering kinsfolk, whilst various

parties searched the neighbourhood for possible remaining moon-beasts, and boarded the

evil-smelling black galley at the wharf to make sure that nothing had escaped the general

defeat. Surely enough, the capture had been thorough; for not a sign of further life could the

victors detect. Carter, anxious to preserve a means of access to the rest of dreamland, urged

them not to sink the anchored galley; and this request was freely granted out of gratitude for

his act in reporting the plight of the captured trio. On the ship were found some very curious

objects and decorations, some of which Carter cast at once into the sea.

Ghouls and night-gaunts now formed themselves in separate groups, the former questioning

their rescued fellows anent past happenings. It appeared that the three had followed Carter‘s

directions and proceeded from the enchanted wood to Dylath-Leen by way of Nir and the

Skai, stealing human clothes at a lonely farmhouse and loping as closely as possible in the

fashion of a man‘s walk. In Dylath-Leen‘s taverns their grotesque ways and faces had

aroused much comment; but they had persisted in asking the way to Sarkomand until at last

an old traveller was able to tell them. Then they knew that only a ship for Lelag-Leng would

serve their purpose, and prepared to wait patiently for such a vessel.

But evil spies had doubtless reported much; for shortly a black galley put into port, and the

wide-mouthed ruby merchants invited the ghouls to drink with them in a tavern. Wine was

produced from one of those sinister bottles grotesquely carven from a single ruby, and after

that the ghouls found themselves prisoners on the black galley as Carter had once found

himself. This time, however, the unseen rowers steered not for the moon but for antique

Sarkomand; bent evidently on taking their captives before the high-priest not to be described.

They had touched at the jagged rock in the northern sea which Inganok‘s mariners shun, and

the ghouls had there seen for the first time the real masters of the ship; being sickened

despite their own callousness by such extremes of malign shapelessness and fearsome

odour. There, too, were witnessed the nameless pastimes of the toad-like resident garrison—

such pastimes as give rise to the night-howlings which men fear. After that had come the

landing at ruined Sarkomand and the beginning of the tortures, whose continuance the

present rescue had prevented.

Future plans were next discussed, the three rescued ghouls suggesting a raid on the jagged

rock and the extermination of the toad-like garrison there. To this, however, the night-gaunts

objected; since the prospect of flying over water did not please them. Most of the ghouls

favoured the design, but were at a loss how to follow it without the help of the winged night-

gaunts. Thereupon Carter, seeing that they could not navigate the anchored galley, offered to

teach them the use of the great banks of oars; to which proposal they eagerly assented. Grey

day had now come, and under that leaden northern sky a picked detachment of ghouls filed

into the noisome ship and took their seats on the rowers‘ benches. Carter found them fairly

apt at learning, and before night had risked several experimental trips around the harbour. Not

till three days later, however, did he deem it safe to attempt the voyage of conquest. Then, the

rowers trained and the night-gaunts safely stowed in the forecastle, the party set sail at last;

Pickman and the other chiefs gathering on deck and discussing modes of approach and

procedure.

On the very first night the howlings from the rock were heard. Such was their timbre that all

the galley‘s crew shook visibly; but most of all trembled the three rescued ghouls who knew

precisely what those howlings meant. It was not thought best to attempt an attack by night, so

the ship lay to under the phosphorescent clouds to wait for the dawn of a greyish day. When

the light was ample and the howlings still the rowers resumed their strokes, and the galley

drew closer and closer to that jagged rock whose granite pinnacles clawed fantastically at the

dull sky. The sides of the rock were very steep; but on ledges here and there could be seen

the bulging walls of queer windowless dwellings, and the low railings guarding travelled high

roads. No ship of men had ever come so near the place, or at least, had never come so near

and departed again; but Carter and the ghouls were void of fear and kept inflexibly on,

rounding the eastern face of the rock and seeking the wharves which the rescued trio

described as being on the southern side within a harbour formed of steep headlands.

The headlands were prolongations of the island proper, and came so closely together that

only one ship at a time might pass between them. There seemed to be no watchers on the

outside, so the galley was steered boldly through the flume-like strait and into the stagnant

foetid harbour beyond. Here, however, all was bustle and activity; with several ships lying at

anchor along a forbidding stone quay, and scores of almost-human slaves and moon-beasts

by the waterfront handling crates and boxes or driving nameless and fabulous horrors hitched

to lumbering lorries. There was a small stone town hewn out of the vertical cliff above the

wharves, with the start of a winding road that spiralled out of sight toward higher ledges of the

rock. Of what lay inside that prodigious peak of granite none might say, but the things one

saw on the outside were far from encouraging.

At sight of the incoming galley the crowds on the wharves displayed much eagerness; those

with eyes staring intently, and those without eyes wriggling their pink tentacles expectantly.

They did not, of course, realise that the black ship had changed hands; for ghouls look much

like the horned and hooved almost-humans, and the night-gaunts were all out of sight below.

By this time the leaders had fully formed a plan; which was to loose the night-gaunts as soon

as the wharf was touched, and then to sail directly away, leaving matters wholly to the

instincts of those almost mindless creatures. Marooned on the rock, the horned flyers would

first of all seize whatever living things they found there, and afterward, quite helpless to think

except in terms of the homing instinct, would forget their fear of water and fly swiftly back to

the abyss; bearing their noisome prey to appropriate destinations in the dark, from which not

much would emerge alive.

The ghoul that was Pickman now went below and gave the night-gaunts their simple

instructions, while the ship drew very near to the ominous and malodorous wharves.

Presently a fresh stir rose along the waterfront, and Carter saw that the motions of the galley

had begun to excite suspicion. Evidently the steersman was not making for the right dock,

and probably the watchers had noticed the difference between the hideous ghouls and the

almost-human slaves whose places they were taking. Some silent alarm must have been

given, for almost at once a horde of the mephitic moon-beasts began to pour from the little

black doorways of the windowless houses and down the winding road at the right. A rain of

curious javelins struck the galley as the prow hit the wharf, felling two ghouls and slightly

wounding another; but at this point all the hatches were thrown open to emit a black cloud of

whirring night-gaunts which swarmed over the town like a flock of horned and Cyclopean bats.

The jellyish moon-beasts had procured a great pole and were trying to push off the invading

ship, but when the night-gaunts struck them they thought of such things no more. It was a

very terrible spectacle to see those faceless and rubbery ticklers at their pastime, and

tremendously impressive to watch the dense cloud of them spreading through the town and

up the winding roadway to the reaches above. Sometimes a group of the black flutterers

would drop a toad-like prisoner from aloft by mistake, and the manner in which the victim

would burst was highly offensive to the sight and smell. When the last of the night-gaunts had

left the galley the ghoulish leaders glibbered an order of withdrawal, and the rowers pulled

quietly out of the harbour between the grey headlands while still the town was a chaos of

battle and conquest.

The Pickman ghoul allowed several hours for the night-gaunts to make up their rudimentary

minds and overcome their fear of flying over the sea, and kept the galley standing about a

mile off the jagged rock while he waited and dressed the wounds of the injured men. Night

fell, and the grey twilight gave place to the sickly phosphorescence of low clouds, and all the

while the leaders watched the high peaks of that accursed rock for signs of the night-gaunts‘

flight. Toward morning a black speck was seen hovering timidly over the topmost pinnacle,

and shortly afterward the speck had become a swarm. Just before daybreak the swarm

seemed to scatter, and within a quarter of an hour it had vanished wholly in the distance

toward the northeast. Once or twice something seemed to fall from the thinning swarm into

the sea; but Carter did not worry, since he knew from observation that the toad-like moon-

beasts cannot swim. At length, when the ghouls were satisfied that all the night-gaunts had

left for Sarkomand and the Great Abyss with their doomed burdens, the galley put back into

the harbour betwixt the grey headlands; and all the hideous company landed and roamed

curiously over the denuded rock with its towers and eyries and fortresses chiselled from the

solid stone.

Frightful were the secrets uncovered in those evil and windowless crypts; for the remnants of

unfinished pastimes were many, and in various stages of departure from their primal state.

Carter put out of the way certain things which were after a fashion alive, and fled precipitately

from a few other things about which he could not be very positive. The stench-filled houses

were furnished mostly with grotesque stools and benches carven from moon-trees, and were

painted inside with nameless and frantic designs. Countless weapons, implements, and

ornaments lay about; including some large idols of solid ruby depicting singular beings not

found on the earth. These latter did not, despite their material, invite either appropriation or

long inspection; and Carter took the trouble to hammer five of them into very small pieces.

The scattered spears and javelins he collected, and with Pickman‘s approval distributed

among the ghouls. Such devices were new to the dog-like lopers, but their relative simplicity

made them easy to master after a few concise hints.

The upper parts of the rock held more temples than private homes, and in numerous hewn

chambers were found terrible carven altars and doubtfully stained fonts and shrines for the

worship of things more monstrous than the mild gods atop Kadath. From the rear of one great

temple stretched a low black passage which Carter followed far into the rock with a torch till

he came to a lightless domed hall of vast proportions, whose vaultings were covered with

daemoniac carvings and in whose centre yawned a foul and bottomless well like that in the

hideous monastery of Leng where broods alone the high-priest not to be described. On the

distant shadowy side, beyond the noisome well, he thought he discerned a small door of

strangely wrought bronze; but for some reason he felt an unaccountable dread of opening it

or even approaching it, and hastened back through the cavern to his unlovely allies as they

shambled about with an ease and abandon he could scarcely feel. The ghouls had observed

the unfinished pastimes of the moon-beasts, and had profited in their fashion. They had also

found a hogshead of potent moon-wine, and were rolling it down to the wharves for removal

and later use in diplomatic dealings, though the rescued trio, remembering its effect on them

in Dylath-Leen, had warned their company to taste none of it. Of rubies from lunar mines

there was a great store, both rough and polished, in one of the vaults near the water; but

when the ghouls found they were not good to eat they lost all interest in them. Carter did not

try to carry any away, since he knew too much about those which had mined them.

Suddenly there came an excited meeping from the sentries on the wharves, and all the

loathsome foragers turned from their tasks to stare seaward and cluster round the waterfront.

Betwixt the grey headlands a fresh black galley was rapidly advancing, and it could be but a

moment before the almost-humans on deck would perceive the invasion of the town and give

the alarm to the monstrous things below. Fortunately the ghouls still bore the spears and

javelins which Carter had distributed amongst them; and at his command, sustained by the

being that was Pickman, they now formed a line of battle and prepared to prevent the landing

of the ship. Presently a burst of excitement on the galley told of the crew‘s discovery of the

changed state of things, and the instant stoppage of the vessel proved that the superior

numbers of the ghouls had been noted and taken into account. After a moment of hesitation

the newcomers silently turned and passed out between the headlands again, but not for an

instant did the ghouls imagine that the conflict was averted. Either the dark ship would seek

reinforcements, or the crew would try to land elsewhere on the island; hence a party of scouts

was at once sent up toward the pinnacle to see what the enemy‘s course would be.

In a very few minutes a ghoul returned breathless to say that the moon-beasts and almost-

humans were landing on the outside of the more easterly of the rugged grey headlands, and

ascending by hidden paths and ledges which a goat could scarcely tread in safety. Almost

immediately afterward the galley was sighted again through the flume-like strait, but only for a

second. Then, a few moments later, a second messenger panted down from aloft to say that

another party was landing on the other headland; both being much more numerous than the

size of the galley would seem to allow for. The ship itself, moving slowly with only one

sparsely manned tier of oars, soon hove in sight betwixt the cliffs, and lay to in the foetid

harbour as if to watch the coming fray and stand by for any possible use.

By this time Carter and Pickman had divided the ghouls into three parties, one to meet each

of the two invading columns and one to remain in the town. The first two at once scrambled

up the rocks in their respective directions, while the third was subdivided into a land party and

a sea party. The sea party, commanded by Carter, boarded the anchored galley and rowed

out to meet the undermanned galley of the newcomers; whereat the latter retreated through

the strait to the open sea. Carter did not at once pursue it, for he knew he might be needed

more acutely near the town.

Meanwhile the frightful detachments of the moon-beasts and almost-humans had lumbered

up to the top of the headlands and were shockingly silhouetted on either side against the grey

twilight sky. The thin hellish flutes of the invaders had now begun to whine, and the general

effect of those hybrid, half-amorphous processions was as nauseating as the actual odour

given off by the toad-like lunar blasphemies. Then the two parties of the ghouls swarmed into

sight and joined the silhouetted panorama. Javelins began to fly from both sides, and the

swelling meeps of the ghouls and the bestial howls of the almost-humans gradually joined the

hellish whine of the flutes to form a frantick and indescribable chaos of daemon cacophony.

Now and then bodies fell from the narrow ridges of the headlands into the sea outside or the

harbour inside, in the latter case being sucked quickly under by certain submarine lurkers

whose presence was indicated only by prodigious bubbles.

For half an hour this dual battle raged in the sky, till upon the west cliff the invaders were

completely annihilated. On the east cliff, however, where the leader of the moon-beast party

appeared to be present, the ghouls had not fared so well; and were slowly retreating to the

slopes of the pinnacle proper. Pickman had quickly ordered reinforcements for this front from

the party in the town, and these had helped greatly in the earlier stages of the combat. Then,

when the western battle was over, the victorious survivors hastened across to the aid of their

hard-pressed fellows; turning the tide and forcing the invaders back again along the narrow

ridge of the headland. The almost-humans were by this time all slain, but the last of the toad-

like horrors fought desperately with the great spears clutched in their powerful and disgusting

paws. The time for javelins was now nearly past, and the fight became a hand-to-hand

contest of what few spearmen could meet upon that narrow ridge.

As fury and recklessness increased, the number falling into the sea became very great.

Those striking the harbour met nameless extinction from the unseen bubblers, but of those

striking the open sea some were able to swim to the foot of the cliffs and land on tidal rocks,

while the hovering galley of the enemy rescued several moon-beasts. The cliffs were

unscalable except where the monsters had debarked, so that none of the ghouls on the rocks

could rejoin their battle-line. Some were killed by javelins from the hostile galley or from the

moon-beasts above, but a few survived to be rescued. When the security of the land parties

seemed assured, Carter‘s galley sallied forth between the headlands and drove the hostile

ship far out to sea; pausing to rescue such ghouls as were on the rocks or still swimming in

the ocean. Several moon-beasts washed on rocks or reefs were speedily put out of the way.

Finally, the moon-beasts‘ galley being safely in the distance and the invading land army

concentrated in one place, Carter landed a considerable force on the eastern headland in the

enemy‘s rear; after which the fight was short-lived indeed. Attacked from both sides, the

noisome flounderers were rapidly cut to pieces or pushed into the sea, till by evening the

ghoulish chiefs agreed that the island was again clear of them. The hostile galley, meanwhile,

had disappeared; and it was decided that the evil jagged rock had better be evacuated before

any overwhelming horde of lunar horrors might be assembled and brought against the victors.

So by night Pickman and Carter assembled all the ghouls and counted them with care, finding

that over a fourth had been lost in the day‘s battles. The wounded were placed on bunks in

the galley, for Pickman always discouraged the old ghoulish custom of killing and eating one‘s

own wounded, and the able-bodied troops were assigned to the oars or to such other places

as they might most usefully fill. Under the low phosphorescent clouds of night the galley

sailed, and Carter was not sorry to be departing from that island of unwholesome secrets,

whose lightless domed hall with its bottomless well and repellent bronze door lingered

restlessly in his fancy. Dawn found the ship in sight of Sarkomand‘s ruined quays of basalt,

where a few night-gaunt sentries still waited, squatting like black horned gargoyles on the

broken columns and crumbling sphinxes of that fearful city which lived and died before the

years of man.

The ghouls made camp amongst the fallen stones of Sarkomand, despatching a messenger

for enough night-gaunts to serve them as steeds. Pickman and the other chiefs were effusive

in their gratitude for the aid Carter had lent them; and Carter now began to feel that his plans

were indeed maturing well, and that he would be able to command the help of these fearsome

allies not only in quitting this part of dreamland, but in pursuing his ultimate quest for the gods

atop unknown Kadath, and the marvellous sunset city they so strangely withheld from his

slumbers. Accordingly he spoke of these things to the ghoulish leaders; telling what he knew

of the cold waste wherein Kadath stands and of the monstrous shantaks and the mountains

carven into double-headed images which guard it. He spoke of the fear of shantaks for night-

gaunts, and of how the vast hippocephalic birds fly screaming from the black burrows high up

on the gaunt grey peaks that divide Inganok from hateful Leng. He spoke, too, of the things

he had learnt concerning night-gaunts from the frescoes in the windowless monastery of the

high-priest not to be described; how even the Great Ones fear them, and how their ruler is not

the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep at all, but hoary and immemorial Nodens, Lord of the Great

Abyss.

All these things Carter glibbered to the assembled ghouls, and presently outlined that request

which he had in mind, and which he did not think extravagant considering the services he had

so lately rendered the rubbery, dog-like lopers. He wished very much, he said, for the services

of enough night-gaunts to bear him safely through the air past the realm of shantaks and

carven mountains, and up into the cold waste beyond the returning tracks of any other mortal.

He desired to fly to the onyx castle atop unknown Kadath in the cold waste to plead with the

Great Ones for the sunset city they denied him, and felt sure that the night-gaunts could take

him thither without trouble; high above the perils of the plain, and over the hideous double

heads of those carven sentinel mountains that squat eternally in the grey dusk. For the

horned and faceless creatures there could be no danger from aught of earth, since the Great

Ones themselves dread them. And even were unexpected things to come from the Other

Gods, who are prone to oversee the affairs of earth‘s milder gods, the night-gaunts need not

fear; for the outer hells are indifferent matters to such silent and slippery flyers as own not

Nyarlathotep for their master, but bow only to potent and archaic Nodens.

A flock of ten or fifteen night-gaunts, Carter glibbered, would surely be enough to keep any

combination of shantaks at a distance; though perhaps it might be well to have some ghouls

in the party to manage the creatures, their ways being better known to their ghoulish allies

than to men. The party could land him at some convenient point within whatever walls that

fabulous onyx citadel might have, waiting in the shadows for his return or his signal whilst he

ventured inside the castle to give prayer to the gods of earth. If any ghouls chose to escort

him into the throne-room of the Great Ones, he would be thankful, for their presence would

add weight and importance to his plea. He would not, however, insist upon this but merely

wished transportation to and from the castle atop unknown Kadath; the final journey being

either to the marvellous sunset city itself, in case the gods proved favourable, or back to the

earthward Gate of Deeper Slumber in the enchanted wood in case his prayers were fruitless.

Whilst Carter was speaking all the ghouls listened with great attention, and as the moments

advanced the sky became black with clouds of those night-gaunts for which messengers had

been sent. The winged horrors settled in a semicircle around the ghoulish army, waiting

respectfully as the dog-like chieftains considered the wish of the earthly traveller. The ghoul

that was Pickman glibbered gravely with its fellows, and in the end Carter was offered far

more than he had at most expected. As he had aided the ghouls in their conquest of the

moon-beasts, so would they aid him in his daring voyage to realms whence none had ever

returned; lending him not merely a few of their allied night-gaunts, but their entire army as

they encamped, veteran fighting ghouls and newly assembled night-gaunts alike, save only a

small garrison for the captured black galley and such spoils as had come from the jagged

rock in the sea. They would set out through the air whenever he might wish, and once arrived

on Kadath a suitable train of ghouls would attend him in state as he placed his petition before

earth‘s gods in their onyx castle.

Moved by a gratitude and satisfaction beyond words, Carter made plans with the ghoulish

leaders for his audacious voyage. The army would fly high, they decided, over hideous Leng

with its nameless monastery and wicked stone villages; stopping only at the vast grey peaks

to confer with the shantak-frightening night-gaunts whose burrows honeycombed their

summits. They would then, according to what advice they might receive from those denizens,

choose their final course; approaching unknown Kadath either through the desert of carven

mountains north of Inganok, or through the more northerly reaches of repulsive Leng itself.

Dog-like and soulless as they are, the ghouls and night-gaunts had no dread of what those

untrodden deserts might reveal; nor did they feel any deterring awe at the thought of Kadath

towering lone with its onyx castle of mystery.

About midday the ghouls and night-gaunts prepared for flight, each ghoul selecting a suitable

pair of horned steeds to bear him. Carter was placed well up toward the head of the column

beside Pickman, and in front of the whole a double line of riderless night-gaunts was provided

as a vanguard. At a brisk meep from Pickman the whole shocking army rose in a nightmare

cloud above the broken columns and crumbling sphinxes of primordial Sarkomand; higher

and higher, till even the great basalt cliff behind the town was cleared, and the cold, sterile

table-land of Leng‘s outskirts laid open to sight. Still higher flew the black host, till even this

table-land grew small beneath them; and as they worked northward over the windswept

plateau of horror Carter saw once again with a shudder the circle of crude monoliths and the

squat windowless building which he knew held that frightful silken-masked blasphemy from

whose clutches he had so narrowly escaped. This time no descent was made as the army

swept bat-like over the sterile landscape, passing the feeble fires of the unwholesome stone

villages at a great altitude, and pausing not at all to mark the morbid twistings of the hooved,

horned almost-humans that dance and pipe eternally therein. Once they saw a shantak-bird

flying low over the plain, but when it saw them it screamed noxiously and flapped off to the

north in grotesque panic.

At dusk they reached the jagged grey peaks that form the barrier of Inganok, and hovered

about those strange caves near the summits which Carter recalled as so frightful to the

shantaks. At the insistent meeping of the ghoulish leaders there issued forth from each lofty

burrow a stream of horned black flyers; with which the ghouls and night-gaunts of the party

conferred at length by means of ugly gestures. It soon became clear that the best course

would be that over the cold waste north of Inganok, for Leng‘s northward reaches are full of

unseen pitfalls that even the night-gaunts dislike; abysmal influences centring in certain white

hemispherical buildings on curious knolls, which common folklore associates unpleasantly

with the Other Gods and their crawling chaos Nyarlathotep.

Of Kadath the flutterers of the peaks knew almost nothing, save that there must be some

mighty marvel toward the north, over which the shantaks and the carven mountains stand

guard. They hinted at rumoured abnormalities of proportion in those trackless leagues

beyond, and recalled vague whispers of a realm where night broods eternally; but of definite

data they had nothing to give. So Carter and his party thanked them kindly; and, crossing the

topmost granite pinnacles to the skies of Inganok, dropped below the level of the

phosphorescent night clouds and beheld in the distance those terrible squatting gargoyles

that were mountains till some titan hand carved fright into their virgin rock.

There they squatted, in a hellish half-circle, their legs on the desert sand and their mitres

piercing the luminous clouds; sinister, wolf-like, and double-headed, with faces of fury and

right hands raised, dully and malignly watching the rim of man‘s world and guarding with

horror the reaches of a cold northern world that is not man‘s. From their hideous laps rose evil

shantaks of elephantine bulk, but these all fled with insane titters as the vanguard of night-

gaunts was sighted in the misty sky. Northward above those gargoyle mountains the army

flew, and over leagues of dim desert where never a landmark rose. Less and less luminous

grew the clouds, till at length Carter could see only blackness around him; but never did the

winged steeds falter, bred as they were in earth‘s blackest crypts, and seeing not with any

eyes, but with the whole dank surface of their slippery forms. On and on they flew, past winds

of dubious scent and sounds of dubious import; ever in thickest darkness, and covering such

prodigious spaces that Carter wondered whether or not they could still be within earth‘s

dreamland.

Then suddenly the clouds thinned and the stars shone spectrally above. All below was still

black, but those pallid beacons in the sky seemed alive with a meaning and directiveness

they had never possessed elsewhere. It was not that the figures of the constellations were

different, but that the same familiar shapes now revealed a significance they had formerly

failed to make plain. Everything focussed toward the north; every curve and asterism of the

glittering sky became part of a vast design whose function was to hurry first the eye and then

the whole observer onward to some secret and terrible goal of convergence beyond the

frozen waste that stretched endlessly ahead. Carter looked toward the east where the great

ridge of barrier peaks had towered along all the length of Inganok, and saw against the stars

a jagged silhouette which told of its continued presence. It was more broken now, with

yawning clefts and fantastically erratic pinnacles; and Carter studied closely the suggestive

turns and inclinations of that grotesque outline, which seemed to share with the stars some

subtle northward urge.

They were flying past at a tremendous speed, so that the watcher had to strain hard to catch

details; when all at once he beheld just above the line of the topmost peaks a dark and

moving object against the stars, whose course exactly paralleled that of his own bizarre party.

The ghouls had likewise glimpsed it, for he heard their low glibbering all about him, and for a

moment he fancied the object was a gigantic shantak, of a size vastly greater than that of the

average specimen. Soon, however, he saw that this theory would not hold; for the shape of

the thing above the mountains was not that of any hippocephalic bird. Its outline against the

stars, necessarily vague as it was, resembled rather some huge mitred head or pair of heads

infinitely magnified; and its rapid bobbing flight through the sky seemed most peculiarly a

wingless one. Carter could not tell which side of the mountains it was on, but soon perceived

that it had parts below the parts he had first seen, since it blotted out all the stars in places

where the ridge was deeply cleft.

Then came a wide gap in the range, where the hideous reaches of transmontane Leng were

joined to the cold waste on this side by a low pass through which the stars shone wanly.

Carter watched this gap with intense care, knowing that he might see outlined against the sky

beyond it the lower parts of the vast thing that flew undulantly above the pinnacles. The object

had now floated ahead a trifle, and every eye of the party was fixed on the rift where it would

presently appear in full-length silhouette. Gradually the huge thing above the peaks neared

the gap, slightly slackening its speed as if conscious of having outdistanced the ghoulish

army. For another minute suspense was keen, and then the brief instant of full silhouette and

revelation came; bringing to the lips of the ghouls an awed and half-choked meep of cosmic

fear, and to the soul of the traveller a chill that has never wholly left it. For the mammoth

bobbing shape that overtopped the ridge was only a head—a mitred double head—and below

it in terrible vastness loped the frightful swollen body that bore it; the mountain-high

monstrosity that walked in stealth and silence; the hyaena-like distortion of a giant anthropoid

shape that trotted blackly against the sky, its repulsive pair of cone-capped heads reaching

half way to the zenith.

Carter did not lose consciousness or even scream aloud, for he was an old dreamer; but he

looked behind him in horror and shuddered when he saw that there were other monstrous

heads silhouetted above the level of the peaks, bobbing along stealthily after the first one.

And straight in the rear were three of the mighty mountain shapes seen full against the

southern stars, tiptoeing wolf-like and lumberingly, their tall mitres nodding thousands of feet

in the air. The carven mountains, then, had not stayed squatting in that rigid semicircle north

of Inganok with right hands uplifted. They had duties to perform, and were not remiss. But it

was horrible that they never spoke, and never even made a sound in walking.

Meanwhile the ghoul that was Pickman had glibbered an order to the night-gaunts, and the

whole army soared higher into the air. Up toward the stars the grotesque column shot, till

nothing stood out any longer against the sky; neither the grey granite ridge that was still nor

the carven and mitred mountains that walked. All was blackness beneath as the fluttering

legions surged northward amidst rushing winds and invisible laughter in the aether, and never

a shantak or less mentionable entity rose from the haunted wastes to pursue them. The

farther they went, the faster they flew, till soon their dizzying speed seemed to pass that of a

rifle ball and approach that of a planet in its orbit. Carter wondered how with such speed the

earth could still stretch beneath them, but knew that in the land of dream dimensions have

strange properties. That they were in a realm of eternal night he felt certain, and he fancied

that the constellations overhead had subtly emphasised their northward focus; gathering

themselves up as it were to cast the flying army into the void of the boreal pole, as the folds of

a bag are gathered up to cast out the last bits of substance therein.

Then he noticed with terror that the wings of the night-gaunts were not flapping any more. The

horned and faceless steeds had folded their membraneous appendages, and were resting

quite passive in the chaos of wind that whirled and chuckled as it bore them on. A force not of

earth had seized on the army, and ghouls and night-gaunts alike were powerless before a

current which pulled madly and relentlessly into the north whence no mortal had ever

returned. At length a lone pallid light was seen on the skyline ahead, thereafter rising steadily

as they approached, and having beneath it a black mass that blotted out the stars. Carter saw

that it must be some beacon on a mountain, for only a mountain could rise so vast as seen

from so prodigious a height in the air.

Higher and higher rose the light and the blackness beneath it, till half the northern sky was

obscured by the rugged conical mass. Lofty as the army was, that pale and sinister beacon

rose above it, towering monstrous over all peaks and concernments of earth, and tasting the

atomless aether where the cryptical moon and the mad planets reel. No mountain known of

man was that which loomed before them. The high clouds far below were but a fringe for its

foothills. The gasping dizziness of topmost air was but a girdle for its loins. Scornful and

spectral climbed that bridge betwixt earth and heaven, black in eternal night, and crowned

with a pshent of unknown stars whose awful and significant outline grew every moment

clearer. Ghouls meeped in wonder as they saw it, and Carter shivered in fear lest all the

hurtling army be dashed to pieces on the unyielding onyx of that Cyclopean cliff.

Higher and higher rose the light, till it mingled with the loftiest orbs of the zenith and winked

down at the flyers with lurid mockery. All the north beneath it was blackness now; dread, stony

blackness from infinite depths to infinite heights, with only that pale winking beacon perched

unreachably at the top of all vision. Carter studied the light more closely, and saw at last what

lines its inky background made against the stars. There were towers on that titan mountain-

top; horrible domed towers in noxious and incalculable tiers and clusters beyond any

dreamable workmanship of man; battlements and terraces of wonder and menace, all limned

tiny and black and distant against the starry pshent that glowed malevolently at the uppermost

rim of sight. Capping that most measureless of mountains was a castle beyond all mortal

thought, and in it glowed the daemon-light. Then Randolph Carter knew that his quest was

done, and that he saw above him the goal of all forbidden steps and audacious visions; the

fabulous, the incredible home of the Great Ones atop unknown Kadath.

Even as he realised this thing, Carter noticed a change in the course of the helplessly wind-

sucked party. They were rising abruptly now, and it was plain that the focus of their flight was

the onyx castle where the pale light shone. So close was the great black mountain that its

sides sped by them dizzily as they shot upward, and in the darkness they could discern

nothing upon it. Vaster and vaster loomed the tenebrous towers of the nighted castle above,

and Carter could see that it was well-nigh blasphemous in its immensity. Well might its stones

have been quarried by nameless workmen in that horrible gulf rent out of the rock in the hill

pass north of Inganok, for such was its size that a man on its threshold stood even as an ant

on the steps of earth‘s loftiest fortress. The pshent of unknown stars above the myriad domed

turrets glowed with a sallow, sickly flare, so that a kind of twilight hung about the murky walls

of slippery onyx. The pallid beacon was now seen to be a single shining window high up in

one of the loftiest towers, and as the helpless army neared the top of the mountain Carter

thought he detected unpleasant shadows flitting across the feebly luminous expanse. It was a

strangely arched window, of a design wholly alien to earth.

The solid rock now gave place to the giant foundations of the monstrous castle, and it

seemed that the speed of the party was somewhat abated. Vast walls shot up, and there was

a glimpse of a great gate through which the voyagers were swept. All was night in the titan

courtyard, and then came the deeper blackness of inmost things as a huge arched portal

engulfed the column. Vortices of cold wind surged dankly through sightless labyrinths of onyx,

and Carter could never tell what Cyclopean stairs and corridors lay silent along the route of

his endless aërial twisting. Always upward led the terrible plunge in darkness, and never a

sound, touch, or glimpse broke the dense pall of mystery. Large as the army of ghouls and

night-gaunts was, it was lost in the prodigious voids of that more than earthly castle. And

when at last there suddenly dawned around him the lurid light of that single tower room

whose lofty window had served as a beacon, it took Carter long to discern the far walls and

high, distant ceiling, and to realise that he was indeed not again in the boundless air outside.

Randolph Carter had hoped to come into the throne-room of the Great Ones with poise and

dignity, flanked and followed by impressive lines of ghouls in ceremonial order, and offering

his prayer as a free and potent master among dreamers. He had known that the Great Ones

themselves are not beyond a mortal‘s power to cope with, and had trusted to luck that the

Other Gods and their crawling chaos Nyarlathotep would not happen to come to their aid at

the crucial moment, as they had so often done before when men sought out earth‘s gods in

their home or on their mountains. And with his hideous escort he had half hoped to defy even

the Other Gods if need were, knowing as he did that ghouls have no masters, and that night-

gaunts own not Nyarlathotep but only archaick Nodens for their lord. But now he saw that

supernal Kadath in its cold waste is indeed girt with dark wonders and nameless sentinels,

and that the Other Gods are of a surety vigilant in guarding the mild, feeble gods of earth.

Void as they are of lordship over ghouls and night-gaunts, the mindless, shapeless

blasphemies of outer space can yet control them when they must; so that it was not in state

as a free and potent master of dreamers that Randolph Carter came into the Great Ones‘

throne-room with his ghouls. Swept and herded by nightmare tempests from the stars, and

dogged by unseen horrors of the northern waste, all that army floated captive and helpless in

the lurid light, dropping numbly to the onyx floor when by some voiceless order the winds of

fright dissolved.

Before no golden dais had Randolph Carter come, nor was there any august circle of

crowned and haloed beings with narrow eyes, long-lobed ears, thin nose, and pointed chin

whose kinship to the carven face on Ngranek might stamp them as those to whom a dreamer

might pray. Save for that one tower room the onyx castle atop Kadath was dark, and the

masters were not there. Carter had come to unknown Kadath in the cold waste, but he had

not found the gods. Yet still the lurid light glowed in that one tower room whose size was so

little less than that of all outdoors, and whose distant walls and roof were so nearly lost to

sight in thin, curling mists. Earth‘s gods were not there, it was true, but of subtler and less

visible presences there could be no lack. Where the mild gods are absent, the Other Gods

are not unrepresented; and certainly, the onyx castle of castles was far from tenantless. In

what outrageous form or forms terror would next reveal itself, Carter could by no means

imagine. He felt that his visit had been expected, and wondered how close a watch had all

along been kept upon him by the crawling chaos Nyarlathotep. It is Nyarlathotep, horror of

infinite shapes and dread soul and messenger of the Other Gods, that the fungous moon-

beasts serve; and Carter thought of the black galley that had vanished when the tide of battle

turned against the toad-like abnormalities on the jagged rock in the sea.

Reflecting upon these things, he was staggering to his feet in the midst of his nightmare

company when there rang without warning through that pale-litten and limitless chamber the

hideous blast of a daemon trumpet. Three times pealed that frightful brazen scream, and

when the echoes of the third blast had died chucklingly away Randolph Carter saw that he

was alone. Whither, why, and how the ghouls and night-gaunts had been snatched from sight

was not for him to divine. He knew only that he was suddenly alone, and that whatever

unseen powers lurked mockingly around him were no powers of earth‘s friendly dreamland.

Presently from the chamber‘s uttermost reaches a new sound came. This, too, was a

rhythmic trumpeting; but of a kind far removed from the three raucous blasts which had

dissolved his grisly cohorts. In this low fanfare echoed all the wonder and melody of ethereal

dream; exotic vistas of unimagined loveliness floating from each strange chord and subtly

alien cadence. Odours of incense came to match the golden notes; and overhead a great light

dawned, its colours changing in cycles unknown to earth‘s spectrum, and following the song

of the trumpet in weird symphonic harmonies. Torches flared in the distance, and the beat of

drums throbbed nearer amidst waves of tense expectancy.

Out of the thinning mists and the cloud of strange incense filed twin columns of giant black

slaves with loin-cloths of iridescent silk. Upon their heads were strapped vast helmet-like

torches of glittering metal, from which the fragrance of obscure balsams spread in fumous

spirals. In their right hands were crystal wands whose tips were carven into leering chimaeras,

while their left hands grasped long, thin silver trumpets which they blew in turn. Armlets and

anklets of gold they had, and between each pair of anklets stretched a golden chain that held

its wearer to a sober gait. That they were true black men of earth‘s dreamland was at once

apparent, but it seemed less likely that their rites and costumes were wholly things of our

earth. Ten feet from Carter the columns stopped, and as they did so each trumpet flew

abruptly to its bearer‘s thick lips. Wild and ecstatic was the blast that followed, and wilder still

the cry that chorused just after from dark throats somehow made shrill by strange artifice.

Then down the wide lane betwixt the two columns a lone figure strode; a tall, slim figure with

the young face of an antique Pharaoh, gay with prismatic robes and crowned with a golden

pshent that glowed with inherent light. Close up to Carter strode that regal figure; whose

proud carriage and swart features had in them the fascination of a dark god or fallen

archangel, and around whose eyes there lurked the languid sparkle of capricious humour. It

spoke, and in its mellow tones there rippled the mild music of Lethean streams.

―Randolph Carter,‖ said the voice, ―you have come to see the Great Ones whom it is unlawful

for men to see. Watchers have spoken of this thing, and the Other Gods have grunted as they

rolled and tumbled mindlessly to the sound of thin flutes in the black ultimate void where

broods the daemon-sultan whose name no lips dare speak aloud.

―When Barzai the Wise climbed Hatheg-Kla to see the Great Ones dance and howl above the

clouds in the moonlight he never returned. The Other Gods were there, and they did what

was expected. Zenig of Aphorat sought to reach unknown Kadath in the cold waste, and his

skull is now set in a ring on the little finger of one whom I need not name.

―But you, Randolph Carter, have braved all things of earth‘s dreamland, and burn still with the

flame of quest. You came not as one curious, but as one seeking his due, nor have you failed

ever in reverence toward the mild gods of earth. Yet have these gods kept you from the

marvellous sunset city of your dreams, and wholly through their own small covetousness; for

verily, they craved the weird loveliness of that which your fancy had fashioned, and vowed

that henceforward no other spot should be their abode.

―They are gone from their castle on unknown Kadath to dwell in your marvellous city. All

through its palaces of veined marble they revel by day, and when the sun sets they go out in

the perfumed gardens and watch the golden glory on temples and colonnades, arched

bridges and silver-basined fountains, and wide streets with blossom-laden urns and ivory

statues in gleaming rows. And when night comes they climb tall terraces in the dew, and sit on

carved benches of porphyry scanning the stars, or lean over pale balustrades to gaze at the

town‘s steep northward slopes, where one by one the little windows in old peaked gables

shine softly out with the calm yellow light of homely candles.

―The gods love your marvellous city, and walk no more in the ways of the gods. They have

forgotten the high places of earth, and the mountains that knew their youth. The earth has no

longer any gods that are gods, and only the Other Ones from outer space hold sway on

unremembered Kadath. Far away in a valley of your own childhood, Randolph Carter, play the

heedless Great Ones. You have dreamed too well, O wise arch-dreamer, for you have drawn

dream‘s gods away from the world of all men‘s visions to that which is wholly yours; having

builded out of your boyhood‘s small fancies a city more lovely than all the phantoms that have

gone before.

―It is not well that earth‘s gods leave their thrones for the spider to spin on, and their realm for

the Others to sway in the dark manner of Others. Fain would the powers from outside bring

chaos and horror to you, Randolph Carter, who are the cause of their upsetting, but that they

know it is by you alone that the gods may be sent back to their world. In that half-waking

dreamland which is yours, no power of uttermost night may pursue; and only you can send

the selfish Great Ones gently out of your marvellous sunset city, back through the northern

twilight to their wonted place atop unknown Kadath in the cold waste.

―So, Randolph Carter, in the name of the Other Gods I spare you and charge you to serve my

will. I charge you to seek that sunset city which is yours, and to send thence the drowsy truant

gods for whom the dream-world waits. Not hard to find is that roseal fever of the gods, that

fanfare of supernal trumpets and clash of immortal cymbals, that mystery whose place and

meaning have haunted you through the halls of waking and the gulfs of dreaming, and

tormented you with hints of vanished memory and the pain of lost things awesome and

momentous. Not hard to find is that symbol and relic of your days of wonder, for truly, it is but

the stable and eternal gem wherein all that wonder sparkles crystallised to light your evening

path. Behold! It is not over unknown seas but back over well-known years that your quest

must go; back to the bright strange things of infancy and the quick sun-drenched glimpses of

magic that old scenes brought to wide young eyes.

―For know you, that your gold and marble city of wonder is only the sum of what you have

seen and loved in youth. It is the glory of Boston‘s hillside roofs and western windows aflame

with sunset; of the flower-fragrant Common and the great dome on the hill and the tangle of

gables and chimneys in the violet valley where the many-bridged Charles flows drowsily.

These things you saw, Randolph Carter, when your nurse first wheeled you out in the

springtime, and they will be the last things you will ever see with eyes of memory and of love.

And there is antique Salem with its brooding years, and spectral Marblehead scaling its rocky

precipices into past centuries, and the glory of Salem‘s towers and spires seen afar from

Marblehead‘s pastures across the harbour against the setting sun.

―There is Providence, quaint and lordly on its seven hills over the blue harbour, with terraces

of green leading up to steeples and citadels of living antiquity, and Newport climbing wraith-

like from its dreaming breakwater. Arkham is there, with its moss-grown gambrel roofs and the

rocky rolling meadows behind it; and antediluvian Kingsport hoary with stacked chimneys and

deserted quays and overhanging gables, and the marvel of high cliffs and the milky-misted

ocean with tolling buoys beyond.

―Cool vales in Concord, cobbled lanes in Portsmouth, twilight bends of rustic New-Hampshire

roads where giant elms half hide white farmhouse walls and creaking well-sweeps.

Gloucester‘s salt wharves and Truro‘s windy willows. Vistas of distant steepled towns and hills

beyond hills along the North Shore, hushed stony slopes and low ivied cottages in the lee of

huge boulders in Rhode-Island‘s back country. Scent of the sea and fragrance of the fields;

spell of the dark woods and joy of the orchards and gardens at dawn. These, Randolph

Carter, are your city; for they are yourself. New-England bore you, and into your soul she

poured a liquid loveliness which cannot die. This loveliness, moulded, crystallised, and

polished by years of memory and dreaming, is your terraced wonder of elusive sunsets; and

to find that marble parapet with curious urns and carven rail, and descend at last those

endless balustraded steps to the city of broad squares and prismatic fountains, you need only

to turn back to the thoughts and visions of your wistful boyhood.

―Look! through that window shine the stars of eternal night. Even now they are shining above

the scenes you have known and cherished, drinking of their charm that they may shine more

lovely over the gardens of dream. There is Antares—he is winking at this moment over the

roofs of Tremont Street, and you could see him from your window on Beacon Hill. Out beyond

those stars yawn the gulfs from whence my mindless masters have sent me. Some day you

too may traverse them, but if you are wise you will beware such folly; for of those mortals who

have been and returned, only one preserves a mind unshattered by the pounding, clawing

horrors of the void. Terrors and blasphemies gnaw at one another for space, and there is

more evil in the lesser ones than in the greater; even as you know from the deeds of those

who sought to deliver you into my hands, whilst I myself harboured no wish to shatter you,

and would indeed have helped you hither long ago had I not been elsewhere busy, and

certain that you would yourself find the way. Shun, then, the outer hells, and stick to the calm,

lovely things of your youth. Seek out your marvellous city and drive thence the recreant Great

Ones, sending them back gently to those scenes which are of their own youth, and which wait

uneasy for their return.

―Easier even than the way of dim memory is the way I will prepare for you. See! There comes

hither a monstrous shantak, led by a slave who for your peace of mind had best keep

invisible. Mount and be ready—there! Yogash the black will help you on the scaly horror. Steer

for that brightest star just south of the zenith—it is Vega, and in two hours will be just above

the terrace of your sunset city. Steer for it only till you hear a far-off singing in the high aether.

Higher than that lurks madness, so rein your shantak when the first note lures. Look then

back to earth, and you will see shining the deathless altar-flame of Ired-Naa from the sacred

roof of a temple. That temple is in your desiderate sunset city, so steer for it before you heed

the singing and are lost.

―When you draw nigh the city steer for the same high parapet whence of old you scanned the

outspread glory, prodding the shantak till he cry aloud. That cry the Great Ones will hear and

know as they sit on their perfumed terraces, and there will come upon them such a

homesickness that all of your city‘s wonders will not console them for the absence of Kadath‘s

grim castle and the pshent of eternal stars that crowns it.

―Then must you land amongst them with the shantak, and let them see and touch that

noisome and hippocephalic bird; meanwhile discoursing to them of unknown Kadath, which

you will so lately have left, and telling them how its boundless halls are lonely and unlighted,

where of old they used to leap and revel in supernal radiance. And the shantak will talk to

them in the manner of shantaks, but it will have no powers of persuasion beyond the recalling

of elder days.

―Over and over must you speak to the wandering Great Ones of their home and youth, till at

last they will weep and ask to be shewn the returning path they have forgotten. Thereat can

you loose the waiting shantak, sending him skyward with the homing cry of his kind; hearing

which the Great Ones will prance and jump with antique mirth, and forthwith stride after the

loathly bird in the fashion of gods, through the deep gulfs of heaven to Kadath‘s familiar

towers and domes.

―Then will the marvellous sunset city be yours to cherish and inhabit forever, and once more

will earth‘s gods rule the dreams of men from their accustomed seat. Go now—the casement

is open and the stars await outside. Already your shantak wheezes and titters with

impatience. Steer for Vega through the night, but turn when the singing sounds. Forget not

this warning, lest horrors unthinkable suck you into the gulf of shrieking and ululant madness.

Remember the Other Gods; they are great and mindless and terrible, and lurk in the outer

voids. They are good gods to shun.

―Hei! Aa-shanta ’nygh! You are off! Send back earth‘s gods to their haunts on unknown

Kadath, and pray to all space that you may never meet me in my thousand other forms.

Farewell, Randolph Carter, and beware; for I am Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos!‖

And Randolph Carter, gasping and dizzy on his hideous shantak, shot screamingly into space

toward the cold blue glare of boreal Vega; looking but once behind him at the clustered and

chaotic turrets of the onyx nightmare wherein still glowed the lone lurid light of that window

above the air and the clouds of earth‘s dreamland. Great polypous horrors slid darkly past,

and unseen bat-wings beat multitudinous around him, but still he clung to the unwholesome

mane of that loathly and hippocephalic scaled bird. The stars danced mockingly, almost

shifting now and then to form pale signs of doom that one might wonder one had not seen

and feared before; and ever the winds of aether howled of vague blackness and loneliness

beyond the cosmos.

Then through the glittering vault ahead there fell a hush of portent, and all the winds and

horrors slunk away as night things slink away before the dawn. Trembling in waves that

golden wisps of nebula made weirdly visible, there rose a timid hint of far-off melody, droning

in faint chords that our own universe of stars knows not. And as that music grew, the shantak

raised its ears and plunged ahead, and Carter likewise bent to catch each lovely strain. It was

a song, but not the song of any voice. Night and the spheres sang it, and it was old when

space and Nyarlathotep and the Other Gods were born.

Faster flew the shantak, and lower bent the rider, drunk with the marvels of strange gulfs, and

whirling in the crystal coils of outer magic. Then came too late the warning of the evil one, the

sardonic caution of the daemon legate who had bidden the seeker beware the madness of

that song. Only to taunt had Nyarlathotep marked out the way to safety and the marvellous

sunset city; only to mock had that black messenger revealed the secret of those truant gods

whose steps he could so easily lead back at will. For madness and the void‘s wild vengeance

are Nyarlathotep‘s only gifts to the presumptuous; and frantick though the rider strove to turn

his disgusting steed, that leering, tittering shantak coursed on impetuous and relentless,

flapping its great slippery wings in malignant joy, and headed for those unhallowed pits

whither no dreams reach; that last amorphous blight of nethermost confusion where bubbles

and blasphemes at infinity‘s centre the mindless daemon-sultan Azathoth, whose name no

lips dare speak aloud.

Unswerving and obedient to the foul legate‘s orders, that hellish bird plunged onward through

shoals of shapeless lurkers and caperers in darkness, and vacuous herds of drifting entities

that pawed and groped and groped and pawed; the nameless larvae of the Other Gods, that

are like them blind and without mind, and possessed of singular hungers and thirsts.

Onward unswerving and relentless, and tittering hilariously to watch the chuckling and

hysterics into which the siren song of night and the spheres had turned, that eldritch scaly

monster bore its helpless rider; hurtling and shooting, cleaving the uttermost rim and spanning

the outermost abysses; leaving behind the stars and the realms of matter, and darting meteor-

like through stark formlessness toward those inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time

wherein black Azathoth gnaws shapeless and ravenous amidst the muffled, maddening beat

of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes.

Onward—onward—through the screaming, cackling, and blackly populous gulfs—and then

from some dim blessed distance there came an image and a thought to Randolph Carter the

doomed. Too well had Nyarlathotep planned his mocking and his tantalising, for he had

brought up that which no gusts of icy terror could quite efface. Home—New England—Beacon

Hill—the waking world.

―For know you, that your gold and marble city of wonder is only the sum of what you have

seen and loved in youth . . . the glory of Boston‘s hillside roofs and western windows aflame

with sunset; of the flower-fragrant Common and the great dome on the hill and the tangle of

gables and chimneys in the violet valley where the many-bridged Charles flows drowsily . . .

this loveliness, moulded, crystallised, and polished by years of memory and dreaming, is your

terraced wonder of elusive sunsets; and to find that marble parapet with curious urns and

carven rail, and descend at last those endless balustraded steps to the city of broad squares

and prismatic fountains, you need only to turn back to the thoughts and visions of your wistful

boyhood.‖

Onward—onward—dizzily onward to ultimate doom through the blackness where sightless

feelers pawed and slimy snouts jostled and nameless things tittered and tittered and tittered.

But the image and the thought had come, and Randolph Carter knew clearly that he was

dreaming and only dreaming, and that somewhere in the background the world of waking and

the city of his infancy still lay. Words came again—―You need only turn back to the thoughts

and visions of your wistful boyhood.‖ Turn—turn—blackness on every side, but Randolph

Carter could turn.

Thick though the rushing nightmare that clutched his senses, Randolph Carter could turn and

move. He could move, and if he chose he could leap off the evil shantak that bore him

hurtlingly doomward at the orders of Nyarlathotep. He could leap off and dare those depths of

night that yawned interminably down, those depths of fear whose terrors yet could not exceed

the nameless doom that lurked waiting at chaos‘ core. He could turn and move and leap—he

could—he would—he would—

Off that vast hippocephalic abomination leaped the doomed and desperate dreamer, and

down through endless voids of sentient blackness he fell. Aeons reeled, universes died and

were born again, stars became nebulae and nebulae became stars, and still Randolph Carter

fell through those endless voids of sentient blackness.

Then in the slow creeping course of eternity the utmost cycle of the cosmos churned itself into

another futile completion, and all things became again as they were unreckoned kalpas

before. Matter and light were born anew as space once had known them; and comets, suns,

and worlds sprang flaming into life, though nothing survived to tell that they had been and

gone, been and gone, always and always, back to no first beginning.

And there was a firmament again, and a wind, and a glare of purple light in the eyes of the

falling dreamer. There were gods and presences and wills; beauty and evil, and the shrieking

of noxious night robbed of its prey. For through the unknown ultimate cycle had lived a

thought and a vision of a dreamer‘s boyhood, and now there were re-made a waking world

and an old cherished city to body and to justify these things. Out of the void S‘ngac the violet

gas had pointed the way, and archaic Nodens was bellowing his guidance from unhinted

deeps.

Stars swelled to dawns, and dawns burst into fountains of gold, carmine, and purple, and still

the dreamer fell. Cries rent the aether as ribbons of light beat back the fiends from outside.

And hoary Nodens raised a howl of triumph when Nyarlathotep, close on his quarry, stopped

baffled by a glare that seared his formless hunting-horrors to grey dust. Randolph Carter had

indeed descended at last the wide marmoreal flights to his marvellous city, for he was come

again to the fair New England world that had wrought him.

So to the organ chords of morning‘s myriad whistles, and dawn‘s blaze thrown dazzling

through purple panes by the great gold dome of the State House on the hill, Randolph Carter

leaped shoutingly awake within his Boston room. Birds sang in hidden gardens and the

perfume of trellised vines came wistful from arbours his grandfather had reared. Beauty and

light glowed from classic mantel and carven cornice and walls grotesquely figured, while a

sleek black cat rose yawning from hearthside sleep that his master‘s start and shriek had

disturbed. And vast infinities away, past the Gate of Deeper Slumber and the enchanted wood

and the garden lands and the Cerenerian Sea and the twilight reaches of Inganok, the

crawling chaos Nyarlathotep strode brooding into the onyx castle atop unknown Kadath in the

cold waste, and taunted insolently the mild gods of earth whom he had snatched abruptly

from their scented revels in the marvellous sunset city.

Return to Table of Contents

The Case of Charles Dexter Ward

(1927)

―The essential Saltes of Animals may be so prepared and preserved, that an

ingenious Man may have the whole Ark of Noah in his own Studie, and raise the

fine Shape of an Animal out of its Ashes at his Pleasure; and by the lyke Method

from the essential Saltes of humane Dust, a Philosopher may, without any criminal

Necromancy, call up the Shape of any dead Ancestour from the Dust whereinto his

Bodie has been incinerated.” — BORELLUS

I. A Result and a Prologue

From a private hospital for the insane near Providence, Rhode Island, there recently

disappeared an exceedingly singular person. He bore the name of Charles Dexter Ward, and

was placed under restraint most reluctantly by the grieving father who had watched his

aberration grow from a mere eccentricity to a dark mania involving both a possibility of

murderous tendencies and a profound and peculiar change in the apparent contents of his

mind. Doctors confess themselves quite baffled by his case, since it presented oddities of a

general physiological as well as psychological character.

In the first place, the patient seemed oddly older than his twenty-six years would warrant.

Mental disturbance, it is true, will age one rapidly; but the face of this young man had taken

on a subtle cast which only the very aged normally acquire. In the second place, his organic

processes shewed a certain queerness of proportion which nothing in medical experience can

parallel. Respiration and heart action had a baffling lack of symmetry; the voice was lost, so

that no sounds above a whisper were possible; digestion was incredibly prolonged and

minimised, and neural reactions to standard stimuli bore no relation at all to anything

heretofore recorded, either normal or pathological. The skin had a morbid chill and dryness,

and the cellular structure of the tissue seemed exaggeratedly coarse and loosely knit. Even a

large olive birthmark on the right hip had disappeared, whilst there had formed on the chest a

very peculiar mole or blackish spot of which no trace existed before. In general, all physicians

agree that in Ward the processes of metabolism had become retarded to a degree beyond

precedent.

Psychologically, too, Charles Ward was unique. His madness held no affinity to any sort

recorded in even the latest and most exhaustive of treatises, and was conjoined to a mental

force which would have made him a genius or a leader had it not been twisted into strange

and grotesque forms. Dr. Willett, who was Ward‘s family physician, affirms that the patient‘s

gross mental capacity, as gauged by his response to matters outside the sphere of his

insanity, had actually increased since the seizure. Ward, it is true, was always a scholar and

an antiquarian; but even his most brilliant early work did not shew the prodigious grasp and

insight displayed during his last examinations by the alienists. It was, indeed, a difficult matter

to obtain a legal commitment to the hospital, so powerful and lucid did the youth‘s mind seem;

and only on the evidence of others, and on the strength of many abnormal gaps in his stock of

information as distinguished from his intelligence, was he finally placed in confinement. To the

very moment of his vanishment he was an omnivorous reader and as great a

conversationalist as his poor voice permitted; and shrewd observers, failing to foresee his

escape, freely predicted that he would not be long in gaining his discharge from custody.

Only Dr. Willett, who brought Charles Ward into the world and had watched his growth of body

and mind ever since, seemed frightened at the thought of his future freedom. He had had a

terrible experience and had made a terrible discovery which he dared not reveal to his

sceptical colleagues. Willett, indeed, presents a minor mystery all his own in his connexion

with the case. He was the last to see the patient before his flight, and emerged from that final

conversation in a state of mixed horror and relief which several recalled when Ward‘s escape

became known three hours later. That escape itself is one of the unsolved wonders of Dr.

Waite‘s hospital. A window open above a sheer drop of sixty feet could hardly explain it, yet

after that talk with Willett the youth was undeniably gone. Willett himself has no public

explanations to offer, though he seems strangely easier in mind than before the escape.

Many, indeed, feel that he would like to say more if he thought any considerable number

would believe him. He had found Ward in his room, but shortly after his departure the

attendants knocked in vain. When they opened the door the patient was not there, and all

they found was the open window with a chill April breeze blowing in a cloud of fine bluish-grey

dust that almost choked them. True, the dogs howled some time before; but that was while

Willett was still present, and they had caught nothing and shewn no disturbance later on.

Ward‘s father was told at once over the telephone, but he seemed more saddened than

surprised. By the time Dr. Waite called in person, Dr. Willett had been talking with him, and

both disavowed any knowledge or complicity in the escape. Only from certain closely

confidential friends of Willett and the senior Ward have any clues been gained, and even

these are too wildly fantastic for general credence. The one fact which remains is that up to

the present time no trace of the missing madman has been unearthed.

Charles Ward was an antiquarian from infancy, no doubt gaining his taste from the venerable

town around him, and from the relics of the past which filled every corner of his parents‘ old

mansion in Prospect Street on the crest of the hill. With the years his devotion to ancient

things increased; so that history, genealogy, and the study of colonial architecture, furniture,

and craftsmanship at length crowded everything else from his sphere of interests. These

tastes are important to remember in considering his madness; for although they do not form

its absolute nucleus, they play a prominent part in its superficial form. The gaps of information

which the alienists noticed were all related to modern matters, and were invariably offset by a

correspondingly excessive though outwardly concealed knowledge of bygone matters as

brought out by adroit questioning; so that one would have fancied the patient literally

transferred to a former age through some obscure sort of auto-hypnosis. The odd thing was

that Ward seemed no longer interested in the antiquities he knew so well. He had, it appears,

lost his regard for them through sheer familiarity; and all his final efforts were obviously bent

toward mastering those common facts of the modern world which had been so totally and

unmistakably expunged from his brain. That this wholesale deletion had occurred, he did his

best to hide; but it was clear to all who watched him that his whole programme of reading and

conversation was determined by a frantic wish to imbibe such knowledge of his own life and

of the ordinary practical and cultural background of the twentieth century as ought to have

been his by virtue of his birth in 1902 and his education in the schools of our own time.

Alienists are now wondering how, in view of his vitally impaired range of data, the escaped

patient manages to cope with the complicated world of today; the dominant opinion being that

he is ‗lying low‘ in some humble and unexacting position till his stock of modern information

can be brought up to the normal.

The beginning of Ward‘s madness is a matter of dispute among alienists. Dr. Lyman, the

eminent Boston authority, places it in 1919 or 1920, during the boy‘s last year at the Moses

Brown School, when he suddenly turned from the study of the past to the study of the occult,

and refused to qualify for college on the ground that he had individual researches of much

greater importance to make. This is certainly borne out by Ward‘s altered habits at the time,

especially by his continual search through town records and among old burying-grounds for a

certain grave dug in 1771; the grave of an ancestor named Joseph Curwen, some of whose

papers he professed to have found behind the panelling of a very old house in Olney Court,

on Stampers‘ Hill, which Curwen was known to have built and occupied. It is, broadly

speaking, undeniable that the winter of 1919–20 saw a great change in Ward; whereby he

abruptly stopped his general antiquarian pursuits and embarked on a desperate delving into

occult subjects both at home and abroad, varied only by this strangely persistent search for

his forefather‘s grave.

From this opinion, however, Dr. Willett substantially dissents; basing his verdict on his close

and continuous knowledge of the patient, and on certain frightful investigations and

discoveries which he made toward the last. Those investigations and discoveries have left

their mark upon him; so that his voice trembles when he tells them, and his hand trembles

when he tries to write of them. Willett admits that the change of 1919–20 would ordinarily

appear to mark the beginning of a progressive decadence which culminated in the horrible

and uncanny alienation of 1928; but believes from personal observation that a finer distinction

must be made. Granting freely that the boy was always ill-balanced temperamentally, and

prone to be unduly susceptible and enthusiastic in his responses to phenomena around him,

he refuses to concede that the early alteration marked the actual passage from sanity to

madness; crediting instead Ward‘s own statement that he had discovered or rediscovered

something whose effect on human thought was likely to be marvellous and profound. The true

madness, he is certain, came with a later change; after the Curwen portrait and the ancient

papers had been unearthed; after a trip to strange foreign places had been made, and some

terrible invocations chanted under strange and secret circumstances; after certain answers to

these invocations had been plainly indicated, and a frantic letter penned under agonising and

inexplicable conditions; after the wave of vampirism and the ominous Pawtuxet gossip; and

after the patient‘s memory commenced to exclude contemporary images whilst his voice

failed and his physical aspect underwent the subtle modification so many subsequently

noticed.

It was only about this time, Willett points out with much acuteness, that the nightmare

qualities became indubitably linked with Ward; and the doctor feels shudderingly sure that

enough solid evidence exists to sustain the youth‘s claim regarding his crucial discovery. In

the first place, two workmen of high intelligence saw Joseph Curwen‘s ancient papers found.

Secondly, the boy once shewed Dr. Willett those papers and a page of the Curwen diary, and

each of the documents had every appearance of genuineness. The hole where Ward claimed

to have found them was long a visible reality, and Willett had a very convincing final glimpse

of them in surroundings which can scarcely be believed and can never perhaps be proved.

Then there were the mysteries and coincidences of the Orne and Hutchinson letters, and the

problem of the Curwen penmanship and of what the detectives brought to light about Dr.

Allen; these things, and the terrible message in mediaeval minuscules found in Willett‘s

pocket when he gained consciousness after his shocking experience.

And most conclusive of all, there are the two hideous results which the doctor obtained from a

certain pair of formulae during his final investigations; results which virtually proved the

authenticity of the papers and of their monstrous implications at the same time that those

papers were borne forever from human knowledge.

One must look back at Charles Ward‘s earlier life as at something belonging as much to the

past as the antiquities he loved so keenly. In the autumn of 1918, and with a considerable

show of zest in the military training of the period, he had begun his junior year at the Moses

Brown School, which lies very near his home. The old main building, erected in 1819, had

always charmed his youthful antiquarian sense; and the spacious park in which the academy

is set appealed to his sharp eye for landscape. His social activities were few; and his hours

were spent mainly at home, in rambling walks, in his classes and drills, and in pursuit of

antiquarian and genealogical data at the City Hall, the State House, the Public Library, the

Athenaeum, the Historical Society, the John Carter Brown and John Hay Libraries of Brown

University, and the newly opened Shepley Library in Benefit Street. One may picture him yet

as he was in those days; tall, slim, and blond, with studious eyes and a slight stoop, dressed

somewhat carelessly, and giving a dominant impression of harmless awkwardness rather

than attractiveness.

His walks were always adventures in antiquity, during which he managed to recapture from

the myriad relics of a glamorous old city a vivid and connected picture of the centuries before.

His home was a great Georgian mansion atop the well-nigh precipitous hill that rises just east

of the river; and from the rear windows of its rambling wings he could look dizzily out over all

the clustered spires, domes, roofs, and skyscraper summits of the lower town to the purple

hills of the countryside beyond. Here he was born, and from the lovely classic porch of the

double-bayed brick facade his nurse had first wheeled him in his carriage; past the little white

farmhouse of two hundred years before that the town had long ago overtaken, and on toward

the stately colleges along the shady, sumptuous street, whose old square brick mansions and

smaller wooden houses with narrow, heavy-columned Doric porches dreamed solid and

exclusive amidst their generous yards and gardens.

He had been wheeled, too, along sleepy Congdon Street, one tier lower down on the steep

hill, and with all its eastern homes on high terraces. The small wooden houses averaged a

greater age here, for it was up this hill that the growing town had climbed; and in these rides

he had imbibed something of the colour of a quaint colonial village. The nurse used to stop

and sit on the benches of Prospect Terrace to chat with policemen; and one of the child‘s first

memories was of the great westward sea of hazy roofs and domes and steeples and far hills

which he saw one winter afternoon from that great railed embankment, all violet and mystic

against a fevered, apocalyptic sunset of reds and golds and purples and curious greens. The

vast marble dome of the State House stood out in massive silhouette, its crowning statue

haloed fantastically by a break in one of the tinted stratus clouds that barred the flaming sky.

When he was larger his famous walks began; first with his impatiently dragged nurse, and

then alone in dreamy meditation. Farther and farther down that almost perpendicular hill he

would venture, each time reaching older and quainter levels of the ancient city. He would

hesitate gingerly down vertical Jenckes Street with its bank walls and colonial gables to the

shady Benefit Street corner, where before him was a wooden antique with an Ionic-pilastered

pair of doorways, and beside him a prehistoric gambrel-roofer with a bit of primal farmyard

remaining, and the great Judge Durfee house with its fallen vestiges of Georgian grandeur. It

was getting to be a slum here; but the titan elms cast a restoring shadow over the place, and

the boy used to stroll south past the long lines of the pre-Revolutionary homes with their great

central chimneys and classic portals. On the eastern side they were set high over basements

with railed double flights of stone steps, and the young Charles could picture them as they

were when the street was new, and red heels and periwigs set off the painted pediments

whose signs of wear were now becoming so visible.

Westward the hill dropped almost as steeply as above, down to the old ―Town Street‖ that the

founders had laid out at the river‘s edge in 1636. Here ran innumerable little lanes with

leaning, huddled houses of immense antiquity; and fascinated though he was, it was long

before he dared to thread their archaic verticality for fear they would turn out a dream or a

gateway to unknown terrors. He found it much less formidable to continue along Benefit

Street past the iron fence of St. John‘s hidden churchyard and the rear of the 1761 Colony

House and the mouldering bulk of the Golden Ball Inn where Washington stopped. At Meeting

Street—the successive Gaol Lane and King Street of other periods—he would look upward to

the east and see the arched flight of steps to which the highway had to resort in climbing the

slope, and downward to the west, glimpsing the old brick colonial schoolhouse that smiles

across the road at the ancient Sign of Shakespear‘s Head where the Providence Gazette and

Country-Journal was printed before the Revolution. Then came the exquisite First Baptist

Church of 1775, luxurious with its matchless Gibbs steeple, and the Georgian roofs and

cupolas hovering by. Here and to the southward the neighbourhood became better, flowering

at last into a marvellous group of early mansions; but still the little ancient lanes led off down

the precipice to the west, spectral in their many-gabled archaism and dipping to a riot of

iridescent decay where the wicked old waterfront recalls its proud East India days amidst

polyglot vice and squalor, rotting wharves, and blear-eyed ship-chandleries, with such

surviving alley names as Packet, Bullion, Gold, Silver, Coin, Doubloon, Sovereign, Guilder,

Dollar, Dime, and Cent.

Sometimes, as he grew taller and more adventurous, young Ward would venture down into

this maelstrom of tottering houses, broken transoms, tumbling steps, twisted balustrades,

swarthy faces, and nameless odours; winding from South Main to South Water, searching out

the docks where the bay and sound steamers still touched, and returning northward at this

lower level past the steep-roofed 1816 warehouses and the broad square at the Great Bridge,

where the 1773 Market House still stands firm on its ancient arches. In that square he would

pause to drink in the bewildering beauty of the old town as it rises on its eastward bluff,

decked with its two Georgian spires and crowned by the vast new Christian Science dome as

London is crowned by St. Paul‘s. He liked mostly to reach this point in the late afternoon,

when the slanting sunlight touches the Market House and the ancient hill roofs and belfries

with gold, and throws magic around the dreaming wharves where Providence Indiamen used

to ride at anchor. After a long look he would grow almost dizzy with a poet‘s love for the sight,

and then he would scale the slope homeward in the dusk past the old white church and up the

narrow precipitous ways where yellow gleams would begin to peep out in small-paned

windows and through fanlights set high over double flights of steps with curious wrought-iron

railings.

At other times, and in later years, he would seek for vivid contrasts; spending half a walk in

the crumbling colonial regions northwest of his home, where the hill drops to the lower

eminence of Stampers‘ Hill with its ghetto and negro quarter clustering round the place where

the Boston stage coach used to start before the Revolution, and the other half in the gracious

southerly realm about George, Benevolent, Power, and Williams Streets, where the old slope

holds unchanged the fine estates and bits of walled garden and steep green lane in which so

many fragrant memories linger. These rambles, together with the diligent studies which

accompanied them, certainly account for a large amount of the antiquarian lore which at last

crowded the modern world from Charles Ward‘s mind; and illustrate the mental soil upon

which fell, in that fateful winter of 1919–20, the seeds that came to such strange and terrible

fruition.

Dr. Willett is certain that, up to this ill-omened winter of first change, Charles Ward‘s

antiquarianism was free from every trace of the morbid. Graveyards held for him no particular

attraction beyond their quaintness and historic value, and of anything like violence or savage

instinct he was utterly devoid. Then, by insidious degrees, there appeared to develop a

curious sequel to one of his genealogical triumphs of the year before; when he had

discovered among his maternal ancestors a certain very long-lived man named Joseph

Curwen, who had come from Salem in March of 1692, and about whom a whispered series of

highly peculiar and disquieting stories clustered.

Ward‘s great-great-grandfather Welcome Potter had in 1785 married a certain ―Ann

Tillinghast, daughter of Mrs. Eliza, daughter to Capt. James Tillinghast‖, of whose paternity

the family had preserved no trace. Late in 1918, whilst examining a volume of original town

records in manuscript, the young genealogist encountered an entry describing a legal change

of name, by which in 1772 a Mrs. Eliza Curwen, widow of Joseph Curwen, resumed, along

with her seven-year-old daughter Ann, her maiden name of Tillinghast; on the ground ‗that her

Husband‘s name was become a publick Reproach by Reason of what was knowne after his

Decease; the which confirming an antient common Rumour, tho‘ not to be credited by a loyall

Wife till so proven as to be wholely past Doubting‘. This entry came to light upon the

accidental separation of two leaves which had been carefully pasted together and treated as

one by a laboured revision of the page numbers.

It was at once clear to Charles Ward that he had indeed discovered a hitherto unknown great-

great-great-grandfather. The discovery doubly excited him because he had already heard

vague reports and seen scattered allusions relating to this person; about whom there

remained so few publicly available records, aside from those becoming public only in modern

times, that it almost seemed as if a conspiracy had existed to blot him from memory. What did

appear, moreover, was of such a singular and provocative nature that one could not fail to

imagine curiously what it was that the colonial recorders were so anxious to conceal and

forget; or to suspect that the deletion had reasons all too valid.

Before this, Ward had been content to let his romancing about old Joseph Curwen remain in

the idle stage; but having discovered his own relationship to this apparently ―hushed-up‖

character, he proceeded to hunt out as systematically as possible whatever he might find

concerning him. In this excited quest he eventually succeeded beyond his highest

expectations; for old letters, diaries, and sheaves of unpublished memoirs in cobwebbed

Providence garrets and elsewhere yielded many illuminating passages which their writers had

not thought it worth their while to destroy. One important sidelight came from a point as

remote as New York, where some Rhode Island colonial correspondence was stored in the

Museum at Fraunces‘ Tavern. The really crucial thing, though, and what in Dr. Willett‘s opinion

formed the definite source of Ward‘s undoing, was the matter found in August 1919 behind

the panelling of the crumbling house in Olney Court. It was that, beyond a doubt, which

opened up those black vistas whose end was deeper than the pit.

II. An Antecedent and a Horror

Joseph Curwen, as revealed by the rambling legends embodied in what Ward heard and

unearthed, was a very astonishing, enigmatic, and obscurely horrible individual. He had fled

from Salem to Providence—that universal haven of the odd, the free, and the dissenting—at

the beginning of the great witchcraft panic; being in fear of accusation because of his solitary

ways and queer chemical or alchemical experiments. He was a colourless-looking man of

about thirty, and was soon found qualified to become a freeman of Providence; thereafter

buying a home lot just north of Gregory Dexter‘s at about the foot of Olney Street. His house

was built on Stampers‘ Hill west of the Town Street, in what later became Olney Court; and in

1761 he replaced this with a larger one, on the same site, which is still standing.

Now the first odd thing about Joseph Curwen was that he did not seem to grow much older

than he had been on his arrival. He engaged in shipping enterprises, purchased wharfage

near Mile-End Cove, helped rebuild the Great Bridge in 1713, and in 1723 was one of the

founders of the Congregational Church on the hill; but always did he retain the nondescript

aspect of a man not greatly over thirty or thirty-five. As decades mounted up, this singular

quality began to excite wide notice; but Curwen always explained it by saying that he came of

hardy forefathers, and practiced a simplicity of living which did not wear him out. How such

simplicity could be reconciled with the inexplicable comings and goings of the secretive

merchant, and with the queer gleaming of his windows at all hours of night, was not very clear

to the townsfolk; and they were prone to assign other reasons for his continued youth and

longevity. It was held, for the most part, that Curwen‘s incessant mixings and boilings of

chemicals had much to do with his condition. Gossip spoke of the strange substances he

brought from London and the Indies on his ships or purchased in Newport, Boston, and New

York; and when old Dr. Jabez Bowen came from Rehoboth and opened his apothecary shop

across the Great Bridge at the Sign of the Unicorn and Mortar, there was ceaseless talk of the

drugs, acids, and metals that the taciturn recluse incessantly bought or ordered from him.

Acting on the assumption that Curwen possessed a wondrous and secret medical skill, many

sufferers of various sorts applied to him for aid; but though he appeared to encourage their

belief in a non-committal way, and always gave them odd-coloured potions in response to

their requests, it was observed that his ministrations to others seldom proved of benefit. At

length, when over fifty years had passed since the stranger‘s advent, and without producing

more than five years‘ apparent change in his face and physique, the people began to whisper

more darkly; and to meet more than half way that desire for isolation which he had always

shewn.

Private letters and diaries of the period reveal, too, a multitude of other reasons why Joseph

Curwen was marvelled at, feared, and finally shunned like a plague. His passion for

graveyards, in which he was glimpsed at all hours and under all conditions, was notorious;

though no one had witnessed any deed on his part which could actually be termed ghoulish.

On the Pawtuxet Road he had a farm, at which he generally lived during the summer, and to

which he would frequently be seen riding at various odd times of the day or night. Here his

only visible servants, farmers, and caretakers were a sullen pair of aged Narragansett

Indians; the husband dumb and curiously scarred, and the wife of a very repulsive cast of

countenance, probably due to a mixture of negro blood. In the lean-to of this house was the

laboratory where most of the chemical experiments were conducted. Curious porters and

teamers who delivered bottles, bags, or boxes at the small rear door would exchange

accounts of the fantastic flasks, crucibles, alembics, and furnaces they saw in the low shelved

room; and prophesied in whispers that the close-mouthed ―chymist‖—by which they meant

alchemist—would not be long in finding the Philosopher‘s Stone. The nearest neighbours to

this farm—the Fenners, a quarter of a mile away—had still queerer things to tell of certain

sounds which they insisted came from the Curwen place in the night. There were cries, they

said, and sustained howlings; and they did not like the large number of livestock which

thronged the pastures, for no such amount was needed to keep a lone old man and a very

few servants in meat, milk, and wool. The identity of the stock seemed to change from week

to week as new droves were purchased from the Kingstown farmers. Then, too, there was

something very obnoxious about a certain great stone outbuilding with only high narrow slits

for windows.

Great Bridge idlers likewise had much to say of Curwen‘s town house in Olney Court; not so

much the fine new one built in 1761, when the man must have been nearly a century old, but

the first low gambrel-roofed one with the windowless attic and shingled sides, whose timbers

he took the peculiar precaution of burning after its demolition. Here there was less mystery, it

is true; but the hours at which lights were seen, the secretiveness of the two swarthy

foreigners who comprised the only menservants, the hideous indistinct mumbling of the

incredibly aged French housekeeper, the large amounts of food seen to enter a door within

which only four persons lived, and the quality of certain voices often heard in muffled

conversation at highly unseasonable times, all combined with what was known of the

Pawtuxet farm to give the place a bad name.

In choicer circles, too, the Curwen home was by no means undiscussed; for as the newcomer

had gradually worked into the church and trading life of the town, he had naturally made

acquaintances of the better sort, whose company and conversation he was well fitted by

education to enjoy. His birth was known to be good, since the Curwens or Corwins of Salem

needed no introduction in New England. It developed that Joseph Curwen had travelled much

in very early life, living for a time in England and making at least two voyages to the Orient;

and his speech, when he deigned to use it, was that of a learned and cultivated Englishman.

But for some reason or other Curwen did not care for society. Whilst never actually rebuffing a

visitor, he always reared such a wall of reserve that few could think of anything to say to him

which would not sound inane.

There seemed to lurk in his bearing some cryptic, sardonic arrogance, as if he had come to

find all human beings dull through having moved among stranger and more potent entities.

When Dr. Checkley the famous wit came from Boston in 1738 to be rector of King‘s Church,

he did not neglect calling on one of whom he soon heard so much; but left in a very short

while because of some sinister undercurrent he detected in his host‘s discourse. Charles

Ward told his father, when they discussed Curwen one winter evening, that he would give

much to learn what the mysterious old man had said to the sprightly cleric, but that all diarists

agree concerning Dr. Checkley‘s reluctance to repeat anything he had heard. The good man

had been hideously shocked, and could never recall Joseph Curwen without a visible loss of

the gay urbanity for which he was famed.

More definite, however, was the reason why another man of taste and breeding avoided the

haughty hermit. In 1746 Mr. John Merritt, an elderly English gentleman of literary and

scientific leanings, came from Newport to the town which was so rapidly overtaking it in

standing, and built a fine country seat on the Neck in what is now the heart of the best

residence section. He lived in considerable style and comfort, keeping the first coach and

liveried servants in town, and taking great pride in his telescope, his microscope, and his well-

chosen library of English and Latin books. Hearing of Curwen as the owner of the best library

in Providence, Mr. Merritt early paid him a call, and was more cordially received than most

other callers at the house had been. His admiration for his host‘s ample shelves, which

besides the Greek, Latin, and English classics were equipped with a remarkable battery of

philosophical, mathematical, and scientific works including Paracelsus, Agricola, Van

Helmont, Sylvius, Glauber, Boyle, Boerhaave, Becher, and Stahl, led Curwen to suggest a

visit to the farmhouse and laboratory whither he had never invited anyone before; and the two

drove out at once in Mr. Merritt‘s coach.

Mr. Merritt always confessed to seeing nothing really horrible at the farmhouse, but

maintained that the titles of the books in the special library of thaumaturgical, alchemical, and

theological subjects which Curwen kept in a front room were alone sufficient to inspire him

with a lasting loathing. Perhaps, however, the facial expression of the owner in exhibiting

them contributed much of the prejudice. The bizarre collection, besides a host of standard

works which Mr. Merritt was not too alarmed to envy, embraced nearly all the cabbalists,

daemonologists, and magicians known to man; and was a treasure-house of lore in the

doubtful realms of alchemy and astrology. Hermes Trismegistus in Mesnard‘s edition, the

Turba Philosophorum, Geber‘s Liber Investigationis, and Artephius‘ Key of Wisdom all were

there; with the cabbalistic Zohar, Peter Jammy‘s set of Albertus Magnus, Raymond Lully‘s Ars

Magna et Ultima in Zetzner‘s edition, Roger Bacon‘s Thesaurus Chemicus, Fludd‘s Clavis

Alchimiae, and Trithemius‘ De Lapide Philosophico crowding them close. Mediaeval Jews and

Arabs were represented in profusion, and Mr. Merritt turned pale when, upon taking down a

fine volume conspicuously labelled as the Qanoon-e-Islam, he found it was in truth the

forbidden Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, of which he had heard such

monstrous things whispered some years previously after the exposure of nameless rites at

the strange little fishing village of Kingsport, in the Province of the Massachusetts-Bay.

But oddly enough, the worthy gentleman owned himself most impalpably disquieted by a

mere minor detail. On the huge mahogany table there lay face downward a badly worn copy

of Borellus, bearing many cryptical marginalia and interlineations in Curwen‘s hand. The book

was open at about its middle, and one paragraph displayed such thick and tremulous pen-

strokes beneath the lines of mystic black-letter that the visitor could not resist scanning it

through. Whether it was the nature of the passage underscored, or the feverish heaviness of

the strokes which formed the underscoring, he could not tell; but something in that

combination affected him very badly and very peculiarly. He recalled it to the end of his days,

writing it down from memory in his diary and once trying to recite it to his close friend Dr.

Checkley till he saw how greatly it disturbed the urbane rector. It read:

―The essential Saltes of Animals may be so prepared and preserved, that an

ingenious Man may have the whole Ark of Noah in his own Studie, and raise the

fine Shape of an Animal out of its Ashes at his Pleasure; and by the lyke Method

from the essential Saltes of humane Dust, a Philosopher may, without any criminal

Necromancy, call up the Shape of any dead Ancestour from the Dust whereinto his

Bodie has been incinerated.‖

It was near the docks along the southerly part of the Town Street, however, that the worst

things were muttered about Joseph Curwen. Sailors are superstitious folk; and the seasoned

salts who manned the infinite rum, slave, and molasses sloops, the rakish privateers, and the

great brigs of the Browns, Crawfords, and Tillinghasts, all made strange furtive signs of

protection when they saw the slim, deceptively young-looking figure with its yellow hair and

slight stoop entering the Curwen warehouse in Doubloon Street or talking with captains and

supercargoes on the long quay where the Curwen ships rode restlessly. Curwen‘s own clerks

and captains hated and feared him, and all his sailors were mongrel riff-raff from Martinique,

St. Eustatius, Havana, or Port Royal. It was, in a way, the frequency with which these sailors

were replaced which inspired the acutest and most tangible part of the fear in which the old

man was held. A crew would be turned loose in the town on shore leave, some of its members

perhaps charged with this errand or that; and when reassembled it would be almost sure to

lack one or more men. That many of the errands had concerned the farm on the Pawtuxet

Road, and that few of the sailors had ever been seen to return from that place, was not

forgotten; so that in time it became exceedingly difficult for Curwen to keep his oddly assorted

hands. Almost invariably several would desert soon after hearing the gossip of the Providence

wharves, and their replacement in the West Indies became an increasingly great problem to

the merchant.

In 1760 Joseph Curwen was virtually an outcast, suspected of vague horrors and daemoniac

alliances which seemed all the more menacing because they could not be named,

understood, or even proved to exist. The last straw may have come from the affair of the

missing soldiers in 1758, for in March and April of that year two Royal regiments on their way

to New France were quartered in Providence, and depleted by an inexplicable process far

beyond the average rate of desertion. Rumour dwelt on the frequency with which Curwen was

wont to be seen talking with the red-coated strangers; and as several of them began to be

missed, people thought of the odd conditions among his own seamen. What would have

happened if the regiments had not been ordered on, no one can tell.

Meanwhile the merchant‘s worldly affairs were prospering. He had a virtual monopoly of the

town‘s trade in saltpetre, black pepper, and cinnamon, and easily led any other one shipping

establishment save the Browns in his importation of brassware, indigo, cotton, woollens, salt,

rigging, iron, paper, and English goods of every kind. Such shopkeepers as James Green, at

the Sign of the Elephant in Cheapside, the Russells, at the Sign of the Golden Eagle across

the Bridge, or Clark and Nightingale at the Frying-Pan and Fish near the New Coffee-House,

depended almost wholly upon him for their stock; and his arrangements with the local

distillers, the Narragansett dairymen and horse-breeders, and the Newport candle-makers,

made him one of the prime exporters of the Colony.

Ostracised though he was, he did not lack for civic spirit of a sort. When the Colony House

burned down, he subscribed handsomely to the lotteries by which the new brick one—still

standing at the head of its parade in the old main street—was built in 1761. In that same year,

too, he helped rebuild the Great Bridge after the October gale. He replaced many of the

books of the public library consumed in the Colony House fire, and bought heavily in the

lottery that gave the muddy Market Parade and deep-rutted Town Street their pavement of

great round stones with a brick footwalk or ―causey‖ in the middle. About this time, also, he

built the plain but excellent new house whose doorway is still such a triumph of carving. When

the Whitefield adherents broke off from Dr. Cotton‘s hill church in 1743 and founded Deacon

Snow‘s church across the Bridge, Curwen had gone with them; though his zeal and

attendance soon abated. Now, however, he cultivated piety once more; as if to dispel the

shadow which had thrown him into isolation and would soon begin to wreck his business

fortunes if not sharply checked.

The sight of this strange, pallid man, hardly middle-aged in aspect yet certainly not less than a

full century old, seeking at last to emerge from a cloud of fright and detestation too vague to

pin down or analyse, was at once a pathetic, a dramatic, and a contemptible thing. Such is

the power of wealth and of surface gestures, however, that there came indeed a slight

abatement in the visible aversion displayed toward him; especially after the rapid

disappearances of his sailors abruptly ceased. He must likewise have begun to practice an

extreme care and secrecy in his graveyard expeditions, for he was never again caught at

such wanderings; whilst the rumours of uncanny sounds and manoeuvres at his Pawtuxet

farm diminished in proportion. His rate of food consumption and cattle replacement remained

abnormally high; but not until modern times, when Charles Ward examined a set of his

accounts and invoices in the Shepley Library, did it occur to any person—save one embittered

youth, perhaps—to make dark comparisons between the large number of Guinea blacks he

imported until 1766, and the disturbingly small number for whom he could produce bona fide

bills of sale either to slave-dealers at the Great Bridge or to the planters of the Narragansett

Country. Certainly, the cunning and ingenuity of this abhorred character were uncannily

profound, once the necessity for their exercise had become impressed upon him.

But of course the effect of all this belated mending was necessarily slight. Curwen continued

to be avoided and distrusted, as indeed the one fact of his continued air of youth at a great

age would have been enough to warrant; and he could see that in the end his fortunes would

be likely to suffer. His elaborate studies and experiments, whatever they may have been,

apparently required a heavy income for their maintenance; and since a change of

environment would deprive him of the trading advantages he had gained, it would not have

profited him to begin anew in a different region just then. Judgment demanded that he patch

up his relations with the townsfolk of Providence, so that his presence might no longer be a

signal for hushed conversation, transparent excuses of errands elsewhere, and a general

atmosphere of constraint and uneasiness. His clerks, being now reduced to the shiftless and

impecunious residue whom no one else would employ, were giving him much worry; and he

held to his sea-captains and mates only by shrewdness in gaining some kind of ascendancy

over them—a mortgage, a promissory note, or a bit of information very pertinent to their

welfare. In many cases, diarists have recorded with some awe, Curwen shewed almost the

power of a wizard in unearthing family secrets for questionable use. During the final five years

of his life it seemed as though only direct talks with the long-dead could possibly have

furnished some of the data which he had so glibly at his tongue‘s end.

About this time the crafty scholar hit upon a last desperate expedient to regain his footing in

the community. Hitherto a complete hermit, he now determined to contract an advantageous

marriage; securing as a bride some lady whose unquestioned position would make all

ostracism of his home impossible. It may be that he also had deeper reasons for wishing an

alliance; reasons so far outside the known cosmic sphere that only papers found a century

and a half after his death caused anyone to suspect them; but of this nothing certain can ever

be learned. Naturally he was aware of the horror and indignation with which any ordinary

courtship of his would be received, hence he looked about for some likely candidate upon

whose parents he might exert a suitable pressure. Such candidates, he found, were not at all

easy to discover; since he had very particular requirements in the way of beauty,

accomplishments, and social security. At length his survey narrowed down to the household of

one of his best and oldest ship-captains, a widower of high birth and unblemished standing

named Dutee Tillinghast, whose only daughter Eliza seemed dowered with every conceivable

advantage save prospects as an heiress. Capt. Tillinghast was completely under the

domination of Curwen; and consented, after a terrible interview in his cupolaed house on

Power‘s Lane hill, to sanction the blasphemous alliance.

Eliza Tillinghast was at that time eighteen years of age, and had been reared as gently as the

reduced circumstances of her father permitted. She had attended Stephen Jackson‘s school

opposite the Court-House Parade; and had been diligently instructed by her mother, before

the latter‘s death of smallpox in 1757, in all the arts and refinements of domestic life. A

sampler of hers, worked in 1753 at the age of nine, may still be found in the rooms of the

Rhode Island Historical Society. After her mother‘s death she had kept the house, aided only

by one old black woman. Her arguments with her father concerning the proposed Curwen

marriage must have been painful indeed; but of these we have no record. Certain it is that her

engagement to young Ezra Weeden, second mate of the Crawford packet Enterprise, was

dutifully broken off, and that her union with Joseph Curwen took place on the seventh of

March, 1763, in the Baptist church, in the presence of one of the most distinguished

assemblages which the town could boast; the ceremony being performed by the younger

Samuel Winsor. The Gazette mentioned the event very briefly, and in most surviving copies

the item in question seems to be cut or torn out. Ward found a single intact copy after much

search in the archives of a private collector of note, observing with amusement the

meaningless urbanity of the language:

―Monday evening last, Mr. Joseph Curwen, of this Town, Merchant, was married to

Miss Eliza Tillinghast, Daughter of Capt. Dutee Tillinghast, a young Lady who has

real Merit, added to a beautiful Person, to grace the connubial State and

perpetuate its Felicity.‖

The collection of Durfee-Arnold letters, discovered by Charles Ward shortly before his first

reputed madness in the private collection of Melville F. Peters, Esq., of George St., and

covering this and a somewhat antecedent period, throws vivid light on the outrage done to

public sentiment by this ill-assorted match. The social influence of the Tillinghasts, however,

was not to be denied; and once more Joseph Curwen found his house frequented by persons

whom he could never otherwise have induced to cross his threshold. His acceptance was by

no means complete, and his bride was socially the sufferer through her forced venture; but at

all events the wall of utter ostracism was somewhat worn down. In his treatment of his wife

the strange bridegroom astonished both her and the community by displaying an extreme

graciousness and consideration. The new house in Olney Court was now wholly free from

disturbing manifestations, and although Curwen was much absent at the Pawtuxet farm which

his wife never visited, he seemed more like a normal citizen than at any other time in his long

years of residence. Only one person remained in open enmity with him, this being the youthful

ship‘s officer whose engagement to Eliza Tillinghast had been so abruptly broken. Ezra

Weeden had frankly vowed vengeance; and though of a quiet and ordinarily mild disposition,

was now gaining a hate-bred, dogged purpose which boded no good to the usurping

husband.

On the seventh of May, 1765, Curwen‘s only child Ann was born; and was christened by the

Rev. John Graves of King‘s Church, of which both husband and wife had become

communicants shortly after their marriage, in order to compromise between their respective

Congregational and Baptist affiliations. The record of this birth, as well as that of the marriage

two years before, was stricken from most copies of the church and town annals where it ought

to appear; and Charles Ward located both with the greatest difficulty after his discovery of the

widow‘s change of name had apprised him of his own relationship, and engendered the

feverish interest which culminated in his madness. The birth entry, indeed, was found very

curiously through correspondence with the heirs of the loyalist Dr. Graves, who had taken with

him a duplicate set of records when he left his pastorate at the outbreak of the Revolution.

Ward had tried this source because he knew that his great-great-grandmother Ann Tillinghast

Potter had been an Episcopalian.

Shortly after the birth of his daughter, an event he seemed to welcome with a fervour greatly

out of keeping with his usual coldness, Curwen resolved to sit for a portrait. This he had

painted by a very gifted Scotsman named Cosmo Alexander, then a resident of Newport, and

since famous as the early teacher of Gilbert Stuart. The likeness was said to have been

executed on a wall-panel of the library of the house in Olney Court, but neither of the two old

diaries mentioning it gave any hint of its ultimate disposition. At this period the erratic scholar

shewed signs of unusual abstraction, and spent as much time as he possibly could at his farm

on the Pawtuxet Road. He seemed, it was stated, in a condition of suppressed excitement or

suspense; as if expecting some phenomenal thing or on the brink of some strange discovery.

Chemistry or alchemy would appear to have played a great part, for he took from his house to

the farm the greater number of his volumes on that subject.

His affectation of civic interest did not diminish, and he lost no opportunities for helping such

leaders as Stephen Hopkins, Joseph Brown, and Benjamin West in their efforts to raise the

cultural tone of the town, which was then much below the level of Newport in its patronage of

the liberal arts. He had helped Daniel Jenckes found his bookshop in 1763, and was

thereafter his best customer; extending aid likewise to the struggling Gazette that appeared

each Wednesday at the Sign of Shakespear‘s Head. In politics he ardently supported

Governor Hopkins against the Ward party whose prime strength was in Newport, and his

really eloquent speech at Hacker‘s Hall in 1765 against the setting off of North Providence as

a separate town with a pro-Ward vote in the General Assembly did more than any other one

thing to wear down the prejudice against him. But Ezra Weeden, who watched him closely,

sneered cynically at all this outward activity; and freely swore it was no more than a mask for

some nameless traffick with the blackest gulfs of Tartarus. The revengeful youth began a

systematic study of the man and his doings whenever he was in port; spending hours at night

by the wharves with a dory in readiness when he saw lights in the Curwen warehouses, and

following the small boat which would sometimes steal quietly off and down the bay. He also

kept as close a watch as possible on the Pawtuxet farm, and was once severely bitten by the

dogs the old Indian couple loosed upon him.

In 1766 came the final change in Joseph Curwen. It was very sudden, and gained wide notice

amongst the curious townsfolk; for the air of suspense and expectancy dropped like an old

cloak, giving instant place to an ill-concealed exaltation of perfect triumph. Curwen seemed to

have difficulty in restraining himself from public harangues on what he had found or learned or

made; but apparently the need of secrecy was greater than the longing to share his rejoicing,

for no explanation was ever offered by him. It was after this transition, which appears to have

come early in July, that the sinister scholar began to astonish people by his possession of

information which only their long-dead ancestors would seem to be able to impart.

But Curwen‘s feverish secret activities by no means ceased with this change. On the contrary,

they tended rather to increase; so that more and more of his shipping business was handled

by the captains whom he now bound to him by ties of fear as potent as those of bankruptcy

had been. He altogether abandoned the slave trade, alleging that its profits were constantly

decreasing. Every possible moment was spent at the Pawtuxet farm; though there were

rumours now and then of his presence in places which, though not actually near graveyards,

were yet so situated in relation to graveyards that thoughtful people wondered just how

thorough the old merchant‘s change of habits really was. Ezra Weeden, though his periods of

espionage were necessarily brief and intermittent on account of his sea voyaging, had a

vindictive persistence which the bulk of the practical townsfolk and farmers lacked; and

subjected Curwen‘s affairs to a scrutiny such as they had never had before.

Many of the odd manoeuvres of the strange merchant‘s vessels had been taken for granted

on account of the unrest of the times, when every colonist seemed determined to resist the

provisions of the Sugar Act which hampered a prominent traffick. Smuggling and evasion

were the rule in Narragansett Bay, and nocturnal landings of illicit cargoes were continuous

commonplaces. But Weeden, night after night following the lighters or small sloops which he

saw steal off from the Curwen warehouses at the Town Street docks, soon felt assured that it

was not merely His Majesty‘s armed ships which the sinister skulker was anxious to avoid.

Prior to the change in 1766 these boats had for the most part contained chained negroes,

who were carried down and across the bay and landed at an obscure point on the shore just

north of Pawtuxet; being afterward driven up the bluff and across country to the Curwen farm,

where they were locked in that enormous stone outbuilding which had only high narrow slits

for windows. After that change, however, the whole programme was altered. Importation of

slaves ceased at once, and for a time Curwen abandoned his midnight sailings. Then, about

the spring of 1767, a new policy appeared. Once more the lighters grew wont to put out from

the black, silent docks, and this time they would go down the bay some distance, perhaps as

far as Namquit Point, where they would meet and receive cargo from strange ships of

considerable size and widely varied appearance. Curwen‘s sailors would then deposit this

cargo at the usual point on the shore, and transport it overland to the farm; locking it in the

same cryptical stone building which had formerly received the negroes. The cargo consisted

almost wholly of boxes and cases, of which a large proportion were oblong and heavy and

disturbingly suggestive of coffins.

Weeden always watched the farm with unremitting assiduity; visiting it each night for long

periods, and seldom letting a week go by without a sight except when the ground bore a

footprint-revealing snow. Even then he would often walk as close as possible in the travelled

road or on the ice of the neighbouring river to see what tracks others might have left. Finding

his own vigils interrupted by nautical duties, he hired a tavern companion named Eleazar

Smith to continue the survey during his absences; and between them the two could have set

in motion some extraordinary rumours. That they did not do so was only because they knew

the effect of publicity would be to warn their quarry and make further progress impossible.

Instead, they wished to learn something definite before taking any action. What they did learn

must have been startling indeed, and Charles Ward spoke many times to his parents of his

regret at Weeden‘s later burning of his notebooks. All that can be told of their discoveries is

what Eleazar Smith jotted down in a none too coherent diary, and what other diarists and

letter-writers have timidly repeated from the statements which they finally made—and

according to which the farm was only the outer shell of some vast and revolting menace, of a

scope and depth too profound and intangible for more than shadowy comprehension.

It is gathered that Weeden and Smith became early convinced that a great series of tunnels

and catacombs, inhabited by a very sizeable staff of persons besides the old Indian and his

wife, underlay the farm. The house was an old peaked relic of the middle seventeenth century

with enormous stack chimney and diamond-paned lattice windows, the laboratory being in a

lean-to toward the north, where the roof came nearly to the ground. This building stood clear

of any other; yet judging by the different voices heard at odd times within, it must have been

accessible through secret passages beneath. These voices, before 1766, were mere

mumblings and negro whisperings and frenzied screams, coupled with curious chants or

invocations. After that date, however, they assumed a very singular and terrible cast as they

ran the gamut betwixt dronings of dull acquiescence and explosions of frantic pain or fury,

rumblings of conversation and whines of entreaty, pantings of eagerness and shouts of

protest. They appeared to be in different languages, all known to Curwen, whose rasping

accents were frequently distinguishable in reply, reproof, or threatening. Sometimes it seemed

that several persons must be in the house; Curwen, certain captives, and the guards of those

captives. There were voices of a sort that neither Weeden nor Smith had ever heard before

despite their wide knowledge of foreign parts, and many that they did seem to place as

belonging to this or that nationality. The nature of the conversations seemed always a kind of

catechism, as if Curwen were extorting some sort of information from terrified or rebellious

prisoners.

Weeden had many verbatim reports of overheard scraps in his notebook, for English, French,

and Spanish, which he knew, were frequently used; but of these nothing has survived. He did,

however, say that besides a few ghoulish dialogues in which the past affairs of Providence

families were concerned, most of the questions and answers he could understand were

historical or scientific; occasionally pertaining to very remote places and ages. Once, for

example, an alternately raging and sullen figure was questioned in French about the Black

Prince‘s massacre at Limoges in 1370, as if there were some hidden reason which he ought

to know. Curwen asked the prisoner—if prisoner it were—whether the order to slay was given

because of the Sign of the Goat found on the altar in the ancient Roman crypt beneath the

Cathedral, or whether the Dark Man of the Haute Vienne Coven had spoken the Three

Words. Failing to obtain replies, the inquisitor had seemingly resorted to extreme means; for

there was a terrific shriek followed by silence and muttering and a bumping sound.

None of these colloquies were ever ocularly witnessed, since the windows were always

heavily draped. Once, though, during a discourse in an unknown tongue, a shadow was seen

on the curtain which startled Weeden exceedingly; reminding him of one of the puppets in a

show he had seen in the autumn of 1764 in Hacker‘s Hall, when a man from Germantown,

Pennsylvania, had given a clever mechanical spectacle advertised as a ―View of the Famous

City of Jerusalem, in which are represented Jerusalem, the Temple of Solomon, his Royal

Throne, the noted Towers, and Hills, likewise the Sufferings of Our Saviour from the Garden

of Gethsemane to the Cross on the Hill of Golgotha; an artful piece of Statuary, Worthy to be

seen by the Curious.‖ It was on this occasion that the listener, who had crept close to the

window of the front room whence the speaking proceeded, gave a start which roused the old

Indian pair and caused them to loose the dogs on him. After that no more conversations were

ever heard in the house, and Weeden and Smith concluded that Curwen had transferred his

field of action to regions below.

That such regions in truth existed, seemed amply clear from many things. Faint cries and

groans unmistakably came up now and then from what appeared to be the solid earth in

places far from any structure; whilst hidden in the bushes along the river-bank in the rear,

where the high ground sloped steeply down to the valley of the Pawtuxet, there was found an

arched oaken door in a frame of heavy masonry, which was obviously an entrance to caverns

within the hill. When or how these catacombs could have been constructed, Weeden was

unable to say; but he frequently pointed out how easily the place might have been reached by

bands of unseen workmen from the river. Joseph Curwen put his mongrel seamen to diverse

uses indeed! During the heavy spring rains of 1769 the two watchers kept a sharp eye on the

steep river-bank to see if any subterrene secrets might be washed to light, and were

rewarded by the sight of a profusion of both human and animal bones in places where deep

gullies had been worn in the banks. Naturally there might be many explanations of such

things in the rear of a stock farm, and in a locality where old Indian burying-grounds were

common, but Weeden and Smith drew their own inferences.

It was in January 1770, whilst Weeden and Smith were still debating vainly on what, if

anything, to think or do about the whole bewildering business, that the incident of the

Fortaleza occurred. Exasperated by the burning of the revenue sloop Liberty at Newport

during the previous summer, the customs fleet under Admiral Wallace had adopted an

increased vigilance concerning strange vessels; and on this occasion His Majesty‘s armed

schooner Cygnet, under Capt. Charles Leslie, captured after a short pursuit one early

morning the snow Fortaleza of Barcelona, Spain, under Capt. Manuel Arruda, bound

according to its log from Grand Cairo, Egypt, to Providence. When searched for contraband

material, this ship revealed the astonishing fact that its cargo consisted exclusively of

Egyptian mummies, consigned to ―Sailor A. B. C.‖, who would come to remove his goods in a

lighter just off Namquit Point and whose identity Capt. Arruda felt himself in honour bound not

to reveal. The Vice-Admiralty Court at Newport, at a loss what to do in view of the non-

contraband nature of the cargo on the one hand and of the unlawful secrecy of the entry on

the other hand, compromised on Collector Robinson‘s recommendation by freeing the ship

but forbidding it a port in Rhode Island waters. There were later rumours of its having been

seen in Boston Harbour, though it never openly entered the Port of Boston.

This extraordinary incident did not fail of wide remark in Providence, and there were not many

who doubted the existence of some connexion between the cargo of mummies and the

sinister Joseph Curwen. His exotic studies and his curious chemical importations being

common knowledge, and his fondness for graveyards being common suspicion; it did not take

much imagination to link him with a freakish importation which could not conceivably have

been destined for anyone else in the town. As if conscious of this natural belief, Curwen took

care to speak casually on several occasions of the chemical value of the balsams found in

mummies; thinking perhaps that he might make the affair seem less unnatural, yet stopping

just short of admitting his participation. Weeden and Smith, of course, felt no doubt

whatsoever of the significance of the thing; and indulged in the wildest theories concerning

Curwen and his monstrous labours.

The following spring, like that of the year before, had heavy rains; and the watchers kept

careful track of the river-bank behind the Curwen farm. Large sections were washed away,

and a certain number of bones discovered; but no glimpse was afforded of any actual

subterranean chambers or burrows. Something was rumoured, however, at the village of

Pawtuxet about a mile below, where the river flows in falls over a rocky terrace to join the

placid landlocked cove. There, where quaint old cottages climbed the hill from the rustic

bridge, and fishing-smacks lay anchored at their sleepy docks, a vague report went round of

things that were floating down the river and flashing into sight for a minute as they went over

the falls. Of course the Pawtuxet is a long river which winds through many settled regions

abounding in graveyards, and of course the spring rains had been very heavy; but the

fisherfolk about the bridge did not like the wild way that one of the things stared as it shot

down to the still water below, or the way that another half cried out although its condition had

greatly departed from that of objects which normally cry out. That rumour sent Smith—for

Weeden was just then at sea—in haste to the river-bank behind the farm; where surely

enough there remained the evidences of an extensive cave-in. There was, however, no trace

of a passage into the steep bank; for the miniature avalanche had left behind a solid wall of

mixed earth and shrubbery from aloft. Smith went to the extent of some experimental digging,

but was deterred by lack of success—or perhaps by fear of possible success. It is interesting

to speculate on what the persistent and revengeful Weeden would have done had he been

ashore at the time.

By the autumn of 1770 Weeden decided that the time was ripe to tell others of his

discoveries; for he had a large number of facts to link together, and a second eye-witness to

refute the possible charge that jealousy and vindictiveness had spurred his fancy. As his first

confidant he selected Capt. James Mathewson of the Enterprise, who on the one hand knew

him well enough not to doubt his veracity, and on the other hand was sufficiently influential in

the town to be heard in turn with respect. The colloquy took place in an upper room of Sabin‘s

Tavern near the docks, with Smith present to corroborate virtually every statement; and it

could be seen that Capt. Mathewson was tremendously impressed. Like nearly everyone else

in the town, he had had black suspicions of his own anent Joseph Curwen; hence it needed

only this confirmation and enlargement of data to convince him absolutely. At the end of the

conference he was very grave, and enjoined strict silence upon the two younger men. He

would, he said, transmit the information separately to some ten or so of the most learned and

prominent citizens of Providence; ascertaining their views and following whatever advice they

might have to offer. Secrecy would probably be essential in any case, for this was no matter

that the town constables or militia could cope with; and above all else the excitable crowd

must be kept in ignorance, lest there be enacted in these already troublous times a repetition

of that frightful Salem panic of less than a century before which had first brought Curwen

hither.

The right persons to tell, he believed, would be Dr. Benjamin West, whose pamphlet on the

late transit of Venus proved him a scholar and keen thinker; Rev. James Manning, President

of the College which had just moved up from Warren and was temporarily housed in the new

King Street schoolhouse awaiting the completion of its building on the hill above Presbyterian-

Lane; ex-Governor Stephen Hopkins, who had been a member of the Philosophical Society at

Newport, and was a man of very broad perceptions; John Carter, publisher of the Gazette; all

four of the Brown brothers, John, Joseph, Nicholas, and Moses, who formed the recognised

local magnates, and of whom Joseph was an amateur scientist of parts; old Dr. Jabez Bowen,

whose erudition was considerable, and who had much first-hand knowledge of Curwen‘s odd

purchases; and Capt. Abraham Whipple, a privateersman of phenomenal boldness and

energy who could be counted on to lead in any active measures needed. These men, if

favourable, might eventually be brought together for collective deliberation; and with them

would rest the responsibility of deciding whether or not to inform the Governor of the Colony,

Joseph Wanton of Newport, before taking action.

The mission of Capt. Mathewson prospered beyond his highest expectations; for whilst he

found one or two of the chosen confidants somewhat sceptical of the possible ghastly side of

Weeden‘s tale, there was not one who did not think it necessary to take some sort of secret

and coördinated action. Curwen, it was clear, formed a vague potential menace to the welfare

of the town and Colony; and must be eliminated at any cost. Late in December 1770 a group

of eminent townsmen met at the home of Stephen Hopkins and debated tentative measures.

Weeden‘s notes, which he had given to Capt. Mathewson, were carefully read; and he and

Smith were summoned to give testimony anent details. Something very like fear seized the

whole assemblage before the meeting was over, though there ran through that fear a grim

determination which Capt. Whipple‘s bluff and resonant profanity best expressed. They would

not notify the Governor, because a more than legal course seemed necessary. With hidden

powers of uncertain extent apparently at his disposal, Curwen was not a man who could

safely be warned to leave town. Nameless reprisals might ensue, and even if the sinister

creature complied, the removal would be no more than the shifting of an unclean burden to

another place. The times were lawless, and men who had flouted the King‘s revenue forces

for years were not the ones to balk at sterner things when duty impelled. Curwen must be

surprised at his Pawtuxet farm by a large raiding-party of seasoned privateersmen and given

one decisive chance to explain himself. If he proved a madman, amusing himself with shrieks

and imaginary conversations in different voices, he would be properly confined. If something

graver appeared, and if the underground horrors indeed turned out to be real, he and all with

him must die. It could be done quietly, and even the widow and her father need not be told

how it came about.

While these serious steps were under discussion there occurred in the town an incident so

terrible and inexplicable that for a time little else was mentioned for miles around. In the

middle of a moonlight January night with heavy snow underfoot there resounded over the

river and up the hill a shocking series of cries which brought sleepy heads to every window;

and people around Weybosset Point saw a great white thing plunging frantically along the

badly cleared space in front of the Turk‘s Head. There was a baying of dogs in the distance,

but this subsided as soon as the clamour of the awakened town became audible. Parties of

men with lanterns and muskets hurried out to see what was happening, but nothing rewarded

their search. The next morning, however, a giant, muscular body, stark naked, was found on

the jams of ice around the southern piers of the Great Bridge, where the Long Dock stretched

out beside Abbott‘s distil-house, and the identity of this object became a theme for endless

speculation and whispering. It was not so much the younger as the older folk who whispered,

for only in the patriarchs did that rigid face with horror-bulging eyes strike any chord of

memory. They, shaking as they did so, exchanged furtive murmurs of wonder and fear; for in

those stiff, hideous features lay a resemblance so marvellous as to be almost an identity—

and that identity was with a man who had died full fifty years before.

Ezra Weeden was present at the finding; and remembering the baying of the night before, set

out along Weybosset Street and across Muddy Dock Bridge whence the sound had come. He

had a curious expectancy, and was not surprised when, reaching the edge of the settled

district where the street merged into the Pawtuxet Road, he came upon some very curious

tracks in the snow. The naked giant had been pursued by dogs and many booted men, and

the returning tracks of the hounds and their masters could be easily traced. They had given

up the chase upon coming too near the town. Weeden smiled grimly, and as a perfunctory

detail traced the footprints back to their source. It was the Pawtuxet farm of Joseph Curwen,

as he well knew it would be; and he would have given much had the yard been less

confusingly trampled. As it was, he dared not seem too interested in full daylight. Dr. Bowen,

to whom Weeden went at once with his report, performed an autopsy on the strange corpse,

and discovered peculiarities which baffled him utterly. The digestive tracts of the huge man

seemed never to have been in use, whilst the whole skin had a coarse, loosely knit texture

impossible to account for. Impressed by what the old men whispered of this body‘s likeness to

the long-dead blacksmith Daniel Green, whose great-grandson Aaron Hoppin was a

supercargo in Curwen‘s employ, Weeden asked casual questions till he found where Green

was buried. That night a party of ten visited the old North Burying Ground opposite

Herrenden‘s Lane and opened a grave. They found it vacant, precisely as they had expected.

Meanwhile arrangements had been made with the post riders to intercept Joseph Curwen‘s

mail, and shortly before the incident of the naked body there was found a letter from one

Jedediah Orne of Salem which made the coöperating citizens think deeply. Parts of it, copied

and preserved in the private archives of the Smith family where Charles Ward found it, ran as

follows:

―I delight that you continue in ye Gett‘g at Olde Matters in your Way, and doe not

think better was done at Mr. Hutchinson‘s in Salem-Village. Certainely, there was

Noth‘g butt ye liveliest Awfulness in that which H. rais‘d upp from What he cou‘d

gather onlie a part of. What you sente, did not Worke, whether because of Any

Thing miss‘g, or because ye Wordes were not Righte from my Speak‘g or yr

Copy‘g. I alone am at a Loss. I have not ye Chymicall art to followe Borellus, and

owne my Self confounded by ye VII. Booke of ye Necronomicon that you

recommende. But I wou‘d have you Observe what was tolde to us aboute tak‘g

Care whom to calle up, for you are Sensible what Mr. Mather writ in ye Magnalia of

——, and can judge how truely that Horrendous thing is reported. I say to you

againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe; by the Which I meane, Any

that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your Powerfullest

Devices may not be of use. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to

Answer, and shall commande more than you. I was frighted when I read of your

know‘g what Ben Zariatnatmik hadde in his ebony Boxe, for I was conscious who

must have tolde you. And againe I ask that you shalle write me as Jedediah and

not Simon. In this Community a Man may not live too long, and you knowe my Plan

by which I came back as my Son. I am desirous you will Acquaint me with what ye

Blacke Man learnt from Sylvanus Cocidius in ye Vault, under ye Roman Wall, and

will be oblig‘d for ye Lend‘g of ye MS. you speak of.‖

Another and unsigned letter from Philadelphia provoked equal thought, especially for the

following passage:

―I will observe what you say respecting the sending of Accounts only by yr Vessels,

but can not always be certain when to expect them. In the Matter spoke of, I

require onlie one more thing; but wish to be sure I apprehend you exactly. You

inform me, that no Part must be missing if the finest Effects are to be had, but you

can not but know how hard it is to be sure. It seems a great Hazard and Burthen to

take away the whole Box, and in Town (i.e. St. Peter‘s, St. Paul‘s, St. Mary‘s, or

Christ Church) it can scarce be done at all. But I know what Imperfections were in

the one I rais‘d up October last, and how many live Specimens you were forc‘d to

imploy before you hit upon the right Mode in the year 1766; so will be guided by

you in all Matters. I am impatient for yr Brig, and inquire daily at Mr. Biddle‘s

Wharf.‖

A third suspicious letter was in an unknown tongue and even an unknown alphabet. In the

Smith diary found by Charles Ward a single oft-repeated combination of characters is clumsily

copied; and authorities at Brown University have pronounced the alphabet Amharic or

Abyssinian, although they do not recognise the word. None of these epistles was ever

delivered to Curwen, though the disappearance of Jedediah Orne from Salem as recorded

shortly afterward shewed that the Providence men took certain quiet steps. The Pennsylvania

Historical Society also has some curious letters received by Dr. Shippen regarding the

presence of an unwholesome character in Philadelphia. But more decisive steps were in the

air, and it is in the secret assemblages of sworn and tested sailors and faithful old

privateersmen in the Brown warehouses by night that we must look for the main fruits of

Weeden‘s disclosures. Slowly and surely a plan of campaign was under development which

would leave no trace of Joseph Curwen‘s noxious mysteries.

Curwen, despite all precautions, apparently felt that something was in the wind; for he was

now remarked to wear an unusually worried look. His coach was seen at all hours in the town

and on the Pawtuxet Road, and he dropped little by little the air of forced geniality with which

he had latterly sought to combat the town‘s prejudice. The nearest neighbours to his farm, the

Fenners, one night remarked a great shaft of light shooting into the sky from some aperture in

the roof of that cryptical stone building with the high, excessively narrow windows; an event

which they quickly communicated to John Brown in Providence. Mr. Brown had become the

executive leader of the select group bent on Curwen‘s extirpation, and had informed the

Fenners that some action was about to be taken. This he deemed needful because of the

impossibility of their not witnessing the final raid; and he explained his course by saying that

Curwen was known to be a spy of the customs officers at Newport, against whom the hand of

every Providence shipper, merchant, and farmer was openly or clandestinely raised. Whether

the ruse was wholly believed by neighbours who had seen so many queer things is not

certain; but at any rate the Fenners were willing to connect any evil with a man of such queer

ways. To them Mr. Brown had entrusted the duty of watching the Curwen farmhouse, and of

regularly reporting every incident which took place there.

The probability that Curwen was on guard and attempting unusual things, as suggested by

the odd shaft of light, precipitated at last the action so carefully devised by the band of serious

citizens. According to the Smith diary a company of about 100 men met at 10 p.m. on Friday,

April 12th, 1771, in the great room of Thurston‘s Tavern at the Sign of the Golden Lion on

Weybosset Point across the Bridge. Of the guiding group of prominent men in addition to the

leader John Brown there were present Dr. Bowen, with his case of surgical instruments,

President Manning without the great periwig (the largest in the Colonies) for which he was

noted, Governor Hopkins, wrapped in his dark cloak and accompanied by his seafaring

brother Esek, whom he had initiated at the last moment with the permission of the rest, John

Carter, Capt. Mathewson, and Capt. Whipple, who was to lead the actual raiding party. These

chiefs conferred apart in a rear chamber, after which Capt. Whipple emerged to the great

room and gave the gathered seamen their last oaths and instructions. Eleazar Smith was with

the leaders as they sat in the rear apartment awaiting the arrival of Ezra Weeden, whose duty

was to keep track of Curwen and report the departure of his coach for the farm.

About 10:30 a heavy rumble was heard on the Great Bridge, followed by the sound of a coach

in the street outside; and at that hour there was no need of waiting for Weeden in order to

know that the doomed man had set out for his last night of unhallowed wizardry. A moment

later, as the receding coach clattered faintly over the Muddy Dock Bridge, Weeden appeared;

and the raiders fell silently into military order in the street, shouldering the firelocks, fowling-

pieces, or whaling harpoons which they had with them. Weeden and Smith were with the

party, and of the deliberating citizens there were present for active service Capt. Whipple, the

leader, Capt. Esek Hopkins, John Carter, President Manning, Capt. Mathewson, and Dr.

Bowen; together with Moses Brown, who had come up at the eleventh hour though absent

from the preliminary session in the tavern. All these freemen and their hundred sailors began

the long march without delay, grim and a trifle apprehensive as they left the Muddy Dock

behind and mounted the gentle rise of Broad Street toward the Pawtuxet Road. Just beyond

Elder Snow‘s church some of the men turned back to take a parting look at Providence lying

outspread under the early spring stars. Steeples and gables rose dark and shapely, and salt

breezes swept up gently from the cove north of the Bridge. Vega was climbing above the

great hill across the water, whose crest of trees was broken by the roof-line of the unfinished

College edifice. At the foot of that hill, and along the narrow mounting lanes of its side, the old

town dreamed; Old Providence, for whose safety and sanity so monstrous and colossal a

blasphemy was about to be wiped out.

An hour and a quarter later the raiders arrived, as previously agreed, at the Fenner

farmhouse; where they heard a final report on their intended victim. He had reached his farm

over half an hour before, and the strange light had soon afterward shot once into the sky, but

there were no lights in any visible windows. This was always the case of late. Even as this

news was given another great glare arose toward the south, and the party realised that they

had indeed come close to the scene of awesome and unnatural wonders. Capt. Whipple now

ordered his force to separate into three divisions; one of twenty men under Eleazar Smith to

strike across to the shore and guard the landing-place against possible reinforcements for

Curwen until summoned by a messenger for desperate service, a second of twenty men

under Capt. Esek Hopkins to steal down into the river valley behind the Curwen farm and

demolish with axes or gunpowder the oaken door in the high, steep bank, and the third to

close in on the house and adjacent buildings themselves. Of this division one third was to be

led by Capt. Mathewson to the cryptical stone edifice with high narrow windows, another third

to follow Capt. Whipple himself to the main farmhouse, and the remaining third to preserve a

circle around the whole group of buildings until summoned by a final emergency signal.

The river party would break down the hillside door at the sound of a single whistle-blast, then

waiting and capturing anything which might issue from the regions within. At the sound of two

whistle-blasts it would advance through the aperture to oppose the enemy or join the rest of

the raiding contingent. The party at the stone building would accept these respective signals

in an analogous manner; forcing an entrance at the first, and at the second descending

whatever passage into the ground might be discovered, and joining the general or focal

warfare expected to take place within the caverns. A third or emergency signal of three blasts

would summon the immediate reserve from its general guard duty; its twenty men dividing

equally and entering the unknown depths through both farmhouse and stone building. Capt.

Whipple‘s belief in the existence of catacombs was absolute, and he took no alternative into

consideration when making his plans. He had with him a whistle of great power and

shrillness, and did not fear any upsetting or misunderstanding of signals. The final reserve at

the landing, of course, was nearly out of the whistle‘s range; hence would require a special

messenger if needed for help. Moses Brown and John Carter went with Capt. Hopkins to the

river-bank, while President Manning was detailed with Capt. Mathewson to the stone building.

Dr. Bowen, with Ezra Weeden, remained in Capt. Whipple‘s party which was to storm the

farmhouse itself. The attack was to begin as soon as a messenger from Capt. Hopkins had

joined Capt. Whipple to notify him of the river party‘s readiness. The leader would then deliver

the loud single blast, and the various advance parties would commence their simultaneous

attack on three points. Shortly before 1 a.m. the three divisions left the Fenner farmhouse;

one to guard the landing, another to seek the river valley and the hillside door, and the third to

subdivide and attend to the actual buildings of the Curwen farm.

Eleazar Smith, who accompanied the shore-guarding party, records in his diary an uneventful

march and a long wait on the bluff by the bay; broken once by what seemed to be the distant

sound of the signal whistle and again by a peculiar muffled blend of roaring and crying and a

powder blast which seemed to come from the same direction. Later on one man thought he

caught some distant gunshots, and still later Smith himself felt the throb of titanic and

thunderous words resounding in upper air. It was just before dawn that a single haggard

messenger with wild eyes and a hideous unknown odour about his clothing appeared and told

the detachment to disperse quietly to their homes and never again think or speak of the

night‘s doings or of him who had been Joseph Curwen. Something about the bearing of the

messenger carried a conviction which his mere words could never have conveyed; for though

he was a seaman well known to many of them, there was something obscurely lost or gained

in his soul which set him for evermore apart. It was the same later on when they met other old

companions who had gone into that zone of horror. Most of them had lost or gained

something imponderable and indescribable. They had seen or heard or felt something which

was not for human creatures, and could not forget it. From them there was never any gossip,

for to even the commonest of mortal instincts there are terrible boundaries. And from that

single messenger the party at the shore caught a nameless awe which almost sealed their

own lips. Very few are the rumours which ever came from any of them, and Eleazar Smith‘s

diary is the only written record which has survived from that whole expedition which set forth

from the Sign of the Golden Lion under the stars.

Charles Ward, however, discovered another vague sidelight in some Fenner correspondence

which he found in New London, where he knew another branch of the family had lived. It

seems that the Fenners, from whose house the doomed farm was distantly visible, had

watched the departing columns of raiders; and had heard very clearly the angry barking of the

Curwen dogs, followed by the first shrill blast which precipitated the attack. This blast had

been followed by a repetition of the great shaft of light from the stone building, and in another

moment, after a quick sounding of the second signal ordering a general invasion, there had

come a subdued prattle of musketry followed by a horrible roaring cry which the

correspondent Luke Fenner had represented in his epistle by the characters ―Waaaahrrrrr—

R’waaahrrr”. This cry, however, had possessed a quality which no mere writing could convey,

and the correspondent mentions that his mother fainted completely at the sound. It was later

repeated less loudly, and further but more muffled evidences of gunfire ensued; together with

a loud explosion of powder from the direction of the river. About an hour afterward all the dogs

began to bark frightfully, and there were vague ground rumblings so marked that the

candlesticks tottered on the mantelpiece. A strong smell of sulphur was noted; and Luke

Fenner‘s father declared that he heard the third or emergency whistle signal, though the

others failed to detect it. Muffled musketry sounded again, followed by a deep scream less

piercing but even more horrible than those which had preceded it; a kind of throaty, nastily

plastic cough or gurgle whose quality as a scream must have come more from its continuity

and psychological import than from its actual acoustic value.

Then the flaming thing burst into sight at a point where the Curwen farm ought to lie, and the

human cries of desperate and frightened men were heard. Muskets flashed and cracked, and

the flaming thing fell to the ground. A second flaming thing appeared, and a shriek of human

origin was plainly distinguished. Fenner wrote that he could even gather a few words belched

in frenzy: ―Almighty, protect thy lamb!‖ Then there were more shots, and the second flaming

thing fell. After that came silence for about three-quarters of an hour; at the end of which time

little Arthur Fenner, Luke‘s brother, exclaimed that he saw ‗a red fog‘ going up to the stars

from the accursed farm in the distance. No one but the child can testify to this, but Luke

admits the significant coincidence implied by the panic of almost convulsive fright which at the

same moment arched the backs and stiffened the fur of the three cats then within the room.

Five minutes later a chill wind blew up, and the air became suffused with such an intolerable

stench that only the strong freshness of the sea could have prevented its being noticed by the

shore party or by any wakeful souls in Pawtuxet village. This stench was nothing which any of

the Fenners had ever encountered before, and produced a kind of clutching, amorphous fear

beyond that of the tomb or the charnel-house. Close upon it came the awful voice which no

hapless hearer will ever be able to forget. It thundered out of the sky like a doom, and

windows rattled as its echoes died away. It was deep and musical; powerful as a bass organ,

but evil as the forbidden books of the Arabs. What it said no man can tell, for it spoke in an

unknown tongue, but this is the writing Luke Fenner set down to portray the daemoniac

intonations: ―DEESMEES–JESHET–BONE DOSEFE DUVEMA–ENITEMOSS‖. Not till the

year 1919 did any soul link this crude transcript with anything else in mortal knowledge, but

Charles Ward paled as he recognised what Mirandola had denounced in shudders as the

ultimate horror among black magic‘s incantations.

An unmistakably human shout or deep chorused scream seemed to answer this malign

wonder from the Curwen farm, after which the unknown stench grew complex with an added

odour equally intolerable. A wailing distinctly different from the scream now burst out, and was

protracted ululantly in rising and falling paroxysms. At times it became almost articulate,

though no auditor could trace any definite words; and at one point it seemed to verge toward

the confines of diabolic and hysterical laughter. Then a yell of utter, ultimate fright and stark

madness wrenched from scores of human throats—a yell which came strong and clear

despite the depth from which it must have burst; after which darkness and silence ruled all

things. Spirals of acrid smoke ascended to blot out the stars, though no flames appeared and

no buildings were observed to be gone or injured on the following day.

Toward dawn two frightened messengers with monstrous and unplaceable odours saturating

their clothing knocked at the Fenner door and requested a keg of rum, for which they paid

very well indeed. One of them told the family that the affair of Joseph Curwen was over, and

that the events of the night were not to be mentioned again. Arrogant as the order seemed,

the aspect of him who gave it took away all resentment and lent it a fearsome authority; so

that only these furtive letters of Luke Fenner, which he urged his Connecticut relative to

destroy, remain to tell what was seen and heard. The non-compliance of that relative,

whereby the letters were saved after all, has alone kept the matter from a merciful oblivion.

Charles Ward had one detail to add as a result of a long canvass of Pawtuxet residents for

ancestral traditions. Old Charles Slocum of that village said that there was known to his

grandfather a queer rumour concerning a charred, distorted body found in the fields a week

after the death of Joseph Curwen was announced. What kept the talk alive was the notion

that this body, so far as could be seen in its burnt and twisted condition, was neither

thoroughly human nor wholly allied to any animal which Pawtuxet folk had ever seen or read

about.

Not one man who participated in that terrible raid could ever be induced to say a word

concerning it, and every fragment of the vague data which survives comes from those outside

the final fighting party. There is something frightful in the care with which these actual raiders

destroyed each scrap which bore the least allusion to the matter. Eight sailors had been killed,

but although their bodies were not produced their families were satisfied with the statement

that a clash with customs officers had occurred. The same statement also covered the

numerous cases of wounds, all of which were extensively bandaged and treated only by Dr.

Jabez Bowen, who had accompanied the party. Hardest to explain was the nameless odour

clinging to all the raiders, a thing which was discussed for weeks. Of the citizen leaders, Capt.

Whipple and Moses Brown were most severely hurt, and letters of their wives testify the

bewilderment which their reticence and close guarding of their bandages produced.

Psychologically every participant was aged, sobered, and shaken. It is fortunate that they

were all strong men of action and simple, orthodox religionists, for with more subtle

introspectiveness and mental complexity they would have fared ill indeed. President Manning

was the most disturbed; but even he outgrew the darkest shadow, and smothered memories

in prayers. Every man of those leaders had a stirring part to play in later years, and it is

perhaps fortunate that this is so. Little more than a twelvemonth afterward Capt. Whipple led

the mob who burnt the revenue ship Gaspee, and in this bold act we may trace one step in

the blotting out of unwholesome images.

There was delivered to the widow of Joseph Curwen a sealed leaden coffin of curious design,

obviously found ready on the spot when needed, in which she was told her husband‘s body

lay. He had, it was explained, been killed in a customs battle about which it was not politic to

give details. More than this no tongue ever uttered of Joseph Curwen‘s end, and Charles

Ward had only a single hint wherewith to construct a theory. This hint was the merest

thread—a shaky underscoring of a passage in Jedediah Orne‘s confiscated letter to Curwen,

as partly copied in Ezra Weeden‘s handwriting. The copy was found in the possession of

Smith‘s descendants; and we are left to decide whether Weeden gave it to his companion

after the end, as a mute clue to the abnormality which had occurred, or whether, as is more

probable, Smith had it before, and added the underscoring himself from what he had

managed to extract from his friend by shrewd guessing and adroit cross-questioning. The

underlined passage is merely this:

―I say to you againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe; by the Which

I meane, Any that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your

Powerfullest Devices may not be of use. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall

not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you.”

In the light of this passage, and reflecting on what last unmentionable allies a beaten man

might try to summon in his direst extremity, Charles Ward may well have wondered whether

any citizen of Providence killed Joseph Curwen.

The deliberate effacement of every memory of the dead man from Providence life and annals

was vastly aided by the influence of the raiding leaders. They had not at first meant to be so

thorough, and had allowed the widow and her father and child to remain in ignorance of the

true conditions; but Capt. Tillinghast was an astute man, and soon uncovered enough

rumours to whet his horror and cause him to demand that his daughter and granddaughter

change their name, burn the library and all remaining papers, and chisel the inscription from

the slate slab above Joseph Curwen‘s grave. He knew Capt. Whipple well, and probably

extracted more hints from that bluff mariner than anyone else ever gained respecting the end

of the accused sorcerer.

From that time on the obliteration of Curwen‘s memory became increasingly rigid, extending

at last by common consent even to the town records and files of the Gazette. It can be

compared in spirit only to the hush that lay on Oscar Wilde‘s name for a decade after his

disgrace, and in extent only to the fate of that sinful King of Runazar in Lord Dunsany‘s tale,

whom the Gods decided must not only cease to be, but must cease ever to have been.

Mrs. Tillinghast, as the widow became known after 1772, sold the house in Olney Court and

resided with her father in Power‘s Lane till her death in 1817. The farm at Pawtuxet, shunned

by every living soul, remained to moulder through the years; and seemed to decay with

unaccountable rapidity. By 1780 only the stone and brickwork were standing, and by 1800

even these had fallen to shapeless heaps. None ventured to pierce the tangled shrubbery on

the river-bank behind which the hillside door may have lain, nor did any try to frame a definite

image of the scenes amidst which Joseph Curwen departed from the horrors he had wrought.

Only robust old Capt. Whipple was heard by alert listeners to mutter once in a while to

himself, ―Pox on that ———, but he had no business to laugh while he screamed. ‘Twas as

though the damn‘d ——— had some‘at up his sleeve. For half a crown I‘d burn his ———

house.‖

III. A Search and an Evocation

Charles Ward, as we have seen, first learned in 1918 of his descent from Joseph Curwen.

That he at once took an intense interest in everything pertaining to the bygone mystery is not

to be wondered at; for every vague rumour that he had heard of Curwen now became

something vital to himself, in whom flowed Curwen‘s blood. No spirited and imaginative

genealogist could have done otherwise than begin forthwith an avid and systematic collection

of Curwen data.

In his first delvings there was not the slightest attempt at secrecy; so that even Dr. Lyman

hesitates to date the youth‘s madness from any period before the close of 1919. He talked

freely with his family—though his mother was not particularly pleased to own an ancestor like

Curwen—and with the officials of the various museums and libraries he visited. In applying to

private families for records thought to be in their possession he made no concealment of his

object, and shared the somewhat amused scepticism with which the accounts of the old

diarists and letter-writers were regarded. He often expressed a keen wonder as to what really

had taken place a century and a half before at that Pawtuxet farmhouse whose site he vainly

tried to find, and what Joseph Curwen really had been.

When he came across the Smith diary and archives and encountered the letter from Jedediah

Orne he decided to visit Salem and look up Curwen‘s early activities and connexions there,

which he did during the Easter vacation of 1919. At the Essex Institute, which was well known

to him from former sojourns in the glamorous old town of crumbling Puritan gables and

clustered gambrel roofs, he was very kindly received, and unearthed there a considerable

amount of Curwen data. He found that his ancestor was born in Salem-Village, now Danvers,

seven miles from town, on the eighteenth of February (O.S.) 1662–3; and that he had run

away to sea at the age of fifteen, not appearing again for nine years, when he returned with

the speech, dress, and manners of a native Englishman and settled in Salem proper. At that

time he had little to do with his family, but spent most of his hours with the curious books he

had brought from Europe, and the strange chemicals which came for him on ships from

England, France, and Holland. Certain trips of his into the country were the objects of much

local inquisitiveness, and were whisperingly associated with vague rumours of fires on the

hills at night.

Curwen‘s only close friends had been one Edward Hutchinson of Salem-Village and one

Simon Orne of Salem. With these men he was often seen in conference about the Common,

and visits among them were by no means infrequent. Hutchinson had a house well out toward

the woods, and it was not altogether liked by sensitive people because of the sounds heard

there at night. He was said to entertain strange visitors, and the lights seen from his windows

were not always of the same colour. The knowledge he displayed concerning long-dead

persons and long-forgotten events was considered distinctly unwholesome, and he

disappeared about the time the witchcraft panic began, never to be heard from again. At that

time Joseph Curwen also departed, but his settlement in Providence was soon learned of.

Simon Orne lived in Salem until 1720, when his failure to grow visibly old began to excite

attention. He thereafter disappeared, though thirty years later his precise counterpart and self-

styled son turned up to claim his property. The claim was allowed on the strength of

documents in Simon Orne‘s known hand, and Jedediah Orne continued to dwell in Salem till

1771, when certain letters from Providence citizens to the Rev. Thomas Barnard and others

brought about his quiet removal to parts unknown.

Certain documents by and about all of these strange characters were available at the Essex

Institute, the Court House, and the Registry of Deeds, and included both harmless

commonplaces such as land titles and bills of sale, and furtive fragments of a more

provocative nature. There were four or five unmistakable allusions to them on the witchcraft

trial records; as when one Hepzibah Lawson swore on July 10, 1692, at the Court of Oyer and

Terminer under Judge Hathorne, that ‗fortie Witches and the Blacke Man were wont to meete

in the Woodes behind Mr. Hutchinson‘s house‘, and one Amity How declared at a session of

August 8th before Judge Gedney that ‗Mr. G. B. (Rev. George Burroughs) on that Nighte putt

ye Divell his Marke upon Bridget S., Jonathan A., Simon O., Deliverance W., Joseph C.,

Susan P., Mehitable C., and Deborah B.‘ Then there was a catalogue of Hutchinson‘s

uncanny library as found after his disappearance, and an unfinished manuscript in his

handwriting, couched in a cipher none could read. Ward had a photostatic copy of this

manuscript made, and began to work casually on the cipher as soon as it was delivered to

him. After the following August his labours on the cipher became intense and feverish, and

there is reason to believe from his speech and conduct that he hit upon the key before

October or November. He never stated, though, whether or not he had succeeded.

But of the greatest immediate interest was the Orne material. It took Ward only a short time to

prove from identity of penmanship a thing he had already considered established from the

text of the letter to Curwen; namely, that Simon Orne and his supposed son were one and the

same person. As Orne had said to his correspondent, it was hardly safe to live too long in

Salem, hence he resorted to a thirty-year sojourn abroad, and did not return to claim his lands

except as a representative of a new generation. Orne had apparently been careful to destroy

most of his correspondence, but the citizens who took action in 1771 found and preserved a

few letters and papers which excited their wonder. There were cryptic formulae and diagrams

in his and other hands which Ward now either copied with care or had photographed, and one

extremely mysterious letter in a chirography that the searcher recognised from items in the

Registry of Deeds as positively Joseph Curwen‘s.

This Curwen letter, though undated as to the year, was evidently not the one in answer to

which Orne had written the confiscated missive; and from internal evidence Ward placed it not

much later than 1750. It may not be amiss to give the text in full, as a sample of the style of

one whose history was so dark and terrible. The recipient is addressed as ―Simon‖, but a line

(whether drawn by Curwen or Orne Ward could not tell) is run through the word.

Prouidence, I. May (Ut. vulgo)

Brother:—

My honour‘d Antient ffriende, due Respects and earnest Wishes to Him whom we

serve for yr eternall Power. I am just come upon That which you ought to knowe,

concern‘g the Matter of the Laste Extremitie and what to doe regard‘g yt. I am not

dispos‘d to followe you in go‘g Away on acct. of my Yeares, for Prouidence hath not

ye Sharpeness of ye Bay in hunt‘g oute uncommon Things and bringinge to Tryall.

I am ty‘d up in Shippes and Goodes, and cou‘d not doe as you did, besides the

Whiche my ffarme at Patuxet hath under it What you Knowe, that wou‘d not waite

for my com‘g Backe as an Other.

But I am not unreadie for harde ffortunes, as I haue tolde you, and haue longe

work‘d upon ye Way of get‘g Backe after ye Laste. I laste Night strucke on ye

Wordes that bringe up YOGGE-SOTHOTHE, and sawe for ye firste Time that fface

spoke of by Ibn Schacabao in ye ——. And IT said, that ye III Psalme in ye Liber-

Damnatus holdes ye Clauicle. With Sunne in V House, Saturne in Trine, drawe ye

Pentagram of Fire, and saye ye ninth Uerse thrice. This Uerse repeate eache

Roodemas and Hallow‘s Eue; and ye Thing will breede in ye Outside Spheres.

And of ye Seede of Olde shal One be borne who shal looke Backe, tho’ know’g not

what he seekes.

Yett will this availe Nothing if there be no Heir, and if the Saltes, or the Way to

make the Saltes, bee not Readie for his Hande; and here I will owne, I have not

taken needed Stepps nor founde Much. Ye Process is plaguy harde to come neare;

and it uses up such a Store of Specimens, I am harde putte to it to get Enough,

notwithstand‘g the Sailors I have from ye Indies. Ye People aboute are become

curious, but I can stande them off. Ye Gentry are worse than the Populace, be‘g

more Circumstantiall in their Accts. and more believ‘d in what they tell. That Parson

and Mr. Merritt have talk‘d some, I am fearfull, but no Thing soe far is Dangerous.

Ye Chymical substances are easie of get‘g, there be‘g II. goode Chymists in

Towne, Dr. Bowen and Sam: Carew. I am foll‘g oute what Borellus saith, and haue

Helpe in Abdool Al-Hazred his VII. Booke. Whatever I gette, you shal haue. And in

ye meane while, do not neglect to make use of ye Wordes I haue here giuen. I

haue them Righte, but if you Desire to see HIM, imploy the Writings on ye Piece of

—— that I am putt‘g in this Packet. Saye ye Uerses every Roodmas and Hallow‘s

Eue; and if yr Line runn out not, one shall bee in yeares to come that shal looke

backe and use what Saltes or Stuff for Saltes you shal leaue him. Job XIV. XIV.

I rejoice you are again at Salem, and hope I may see you not longe hence. I have a

goode Stallion, and am think‘g of get‘g a Coach, there be‘g one (Mr. Merritt‘s) in

Prouidence already, tho‘ ye Roades are bad. If you are dispos‘d to Travel, doe not

pass me bye. From Boston take ye Post Rd. thro‘ Dedham, Wrentham, and

Attleborough, goode Taverns be‘g at all these Townes. Stop at Mr. Bolcom‘s in

Wrentham, where ye Beddes are finer than Mr. Hatch‘s, but eate at ye other House

for their Cooke is better. Turne into Prou. by Patucket ffalls, and ye Rd. past Mr.

Sayles‘s Tavern. My House opp. Mr. Epenetus Olney‘s Tavern off ye Towne Street,

Ist on ye N. side of Olney‘s Court. Distance from Boston Stone abt. XLIV Miles.

Sir, I am yr olde and true ffriend and Servt. in Almousin-Metraton.

Josephus C.

To Mr. Simon Orne,

William‘s-Lane, in Salem.

This letter, oddly enough, was what first gave Ward the exact location of Curwen‘s Providence

home; for none of the records encountered up to that time had been at all specific. The

discovery was doubly striking because it indicated as the newer Curwen house built in 1761

on the site of the old, a dilapidated building still standing in Olney Court and well known to

Ward in his antiquarian rambles over Stampers‘ Hill. The place was indeed only a few squares

from his own home on the great hill‘s higher ground, and was now the abode of a negro family

much esteemed for occasional washing, housecleaning, and furnace-tending services. To

find, in distant Salem, such sudden proof of the significance of this familiar rookery in his own

family history, was a highly impressive thing to Ward; and he resolved to explore the place

immediately upon his return. The more mystical phases of the letter, which he took to be

some extravagant kind of symbolism, frankly baffled him; though he noted with a thrill of

curiosity that the Biblical passage referred to—Job 14, 14—was the familiar verse, ―If a man

die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.‖

Young Ward came home in a state of pleasant excitement, and spent the following Saturday

in a long and exhaustive study of the house in Olney Court. The place, now crumbling with

age, had never been a mansion; but was a modest two-and-a-half story wooden town house

of the familiar Providence colonial type, with plain peaked roof, large central chimney, and

artistically carved doorway with rayed fanlight, triangular pediment, and trim Doric pilasters. It

had suffered but little alteration externally, and Ward felt he was gazing on something very

close to the sinister matters of his quest.

The present negro inhabitants were known to him, and he was very courteously shewn about

the interior by old Asa and his stout wife Hannah. Here there was more change than the

outside indicated, and Ward saw with regret that fully half of the fine scroll-and-urn

overmantels and shell-carved cupboard linings were gone, whilst much of the fine

wainscotting and bolection moulding was marked, hacked, and gouged, or covered up

altogether with cheap wall-paper. In general, the survey did not yield as much as Ward had

somehow expected; but it was at least exciting to stand within the ancestral walls which had

housed such a man of horror as Joseph Curwen. He saw with a thrill that a monogram had

been very carefully effaced from the ancient brass knocker.

From then until after the close of school Ward spent his time on the photostatic copy of the

Hutchinson cipher and the accumulation of local Curwen data. The former still proved

unyielding; but of the latter he obtained so much, and so many clues to similar data

elsewhere, that he was ready by July to make a trip to New London and New York to consult

old letters whose presence in those places was indicated. This trip was very fruitful, for it

brought him the Fenner letters with their terrible description of the Pawtuxet farmhouse raid,

and the Nightingale-Talbot letters in which he learned of the portrait painted on a panel of the

Curwen library. This matter of the portrait interested him particularly, since he would have

given much to know just what Joseph Curwen looked like; and he decided to make a second

search of the house in Olney Court to see if there might not be some trace of the ancient

features beneath peeling coats of later paint or layers of mouldy wall-paper.

Early in August that search took place, and Ward went carefully over the walls of every room

sizeable enough to have been by any possibility the library of the evil builder. He paid

especial attention to the large panels of such overmantels as still remained; and was keenly

excited after about an hour, when on a broad area above the fireplace in a spacious ground-

floor room he became certain that the surface brought out by the peeling of several coats of

paint was sensibly darker than any ordinary interior paint or the wood beneath it was likely to

have been. A few more careful tests with a thin knife, and he knew that he had come upon an

oil portrait of great extent. With truly scholarly restraint the youth did not risk the damage

which an immediate attempt to uncover the hidden picture with the knife might have done, but

just retired from the scene of his discovery to enlist expert help. In three days he returned with

an artist of long experience, Mr. Walter C. Dwight, whose studio is near the foot of College

Hill; and that accomplished restorer of paintings set to work at once with proper methods and

chemical substances. Old Asa and his wife were duly excited over their strange visitors, and

were properly reimbursed for this invasion of their domestic hearth.

As day by day the work of restoration progressed, Charles Ward looked on with growing

interest at the lines and shades gradually unveiled after their long oblivion. Dwight had begun

at the bottom; hence since the picture was a three-quarter-length one, the face did not come

out for some time. It was meanwhile seen that the subject was a spare, well-shaped man with

dark-blue coat, embroidered waistcoat, black satin small-clothes, and white silk stockings,

seated in a carved chair against the background of a window with wharves and ships beyond.

When the head came out it was observed to bear a neat Albemarle wig, and to possess a

thin, calm, undistinguished face which seemed somehow familiar to both Ward and the artist.

Only at the very last, though, did the restorer and his client begin to gasp with astonishment at

the details of that lean, pallid visage, and to recognise with a touch of awe the dramatic trick

which heredity had played. For it took the final bath of oil and the final stroke of the delicate

scraper to bring out fully the expression which centuries had hidden; and to confront the

bewildered Charles Dexter Ward, dweller in the past, with his own living features in the

countenance of his horrible great-great-great-grandfather.

Ward brought his parents to see the marvel he had uncovered, and his father at once

determined to purchase the picture despite its execution on stationary panelling. The

resemblance to the boy, despite an appearance of rather greater age, was marvellous; and it

could be seen that through some trick of atavism the physical contours of Joseph Curwen had

found precise duplication after a century and a half. Mrs. Ward‘s resemblance to her ancestor

was not at all marked, though she could recall relatives who had some of the facial

characteristics shared by her son and by the bygone Curwen. She did not relish the

discovery, and told her husband that he had better burn the picture instead of bringing it

home. There was, she averred, something unwholesome about it; not only intrinsically, but in

its very resemblance to Charles. Mr. Ward, however, was a practical man of power and

affairs—a cotton manufacturer with extensive mills at Riverpoint in the Pawtuxet Valley—and

not one to listen to feminine scruples. The picture impressed him mightily with its likeness to

his son, and he believed the boy deserved it as a present. In this opinion, it is needless to say,

Charles most heartily concurred; and a few days later Mr. Ward located the owner of the

house—a small rodent-featured person with a guttural accent—and obtained the whole

mantel and overmantel bearing the picture at a curtly fixed priced which cut short the

impending torrent of unctuous haggling.

It now remained to take off the panelling and remove it to the Ward home, where provisions

were made for its thorough restoration and installation with an electric mock-fireplace in

Charles‘s third-floor study or library. To Charles was left the task of superintending this

removal, and on the twenty-eighth of August he accompanied two expert workmen from the

Crooker decorating firm to the house in Olney Court, where the mantel and portrait-bearing

overmantel were detached with great care and precision for transportation in the company‘s

motor truck. There was left a space of exposed brickwork marking the chimney‘s course, and

in this young Ward observed a cubical recess about a foot square, which must have lain

directly behind the head of the portrait. Curious as to what such a space might mean or

contain, the youth approached and looked within; finding beneath the deep coatings of dust

and soot some loose yellowed papers, a crude, thick copybook, and a few mouldering textile

shreds which may have formed the ribbon binding the rest together. Blowing away the bulk of

the dirt and cinders, he took up the book and looked at the bold inscription on its cover. It was

in a hand which he had learned to recognise at the Essex Institute, and proclaimed the

volume as the ―Journall and Notes of Jos: Curwen, Gent., of Providence-Plantations, Late of

Salem.”

Excited beyond measure by his discovery, Ward shewed the book to the two curious workmen

beside him. Their testimony is absolute as to the nature and genuineness of the finding, and

Dr. Willett relies on them to help establish his theory that the youth was not mad when he

began his major eccentricities. All the other papers were likewise in Curwen‘s handwriting,

and one of them seemed especially portentous because of its inscription: ―To Him Who Shal

Come After, & How He May Gett Beyonde Time & ye Spheres.” Another was in a cipher; the

same, Ward hoped, as the Hutchinson cipher which had hitherto baffled him. A third, and here

the searcher rejoiced, seemed to be a key to the cipher; whilst the fourth and fifth were

addressed respectively to ―Edw: Hutchinson, Armiger‖ and ―Jedediah Orne, Esq.‖, ‗or Their

Heir or Heirs, or Those Represent‘g Them‘. The sixth and last was inscribed: ―Joseph Curwen

his Life and Travells Bet’n ye yeares 1678 and 1687: Of Whither He Voyag’d, Where He

Stay’d, Whom He Sawe, and What He Learnt.”

We have now reached the point from which the more academic school of alienists date

Charles Ward‘s madness. Upon his discovery the youth had looked immediately at a few of

the inner pages of the book and manuscripts, and had evidently seen something which

impressed him tremendously. Indeed, in shewing the titles to the workmen he appeared to

guard the text itself with peculiar care, and to labour under a perturbation for which even the

antiquarian and genealogical significance of the find could hardly account. Upon returning

home he broke the news with an almost embarrassed air, as if he wished to convey an idea of

its supreme importance without having to exhibit the evidence itself. He did not even shew the

titles to his parents, but simply told them that he had found some documents in Joseph

Curwen‘s handwriting, ―mostly in cipher‖, which would have to be studied very carefully before

yielding up their true meaning. It is unlikely that he would have shewn what he did to the

workmen, had it not been for their unconcealed curiosity. As it was he doubtless wished to

avoid any display of peculiar reticence which would increase their discussion of the matter.

That night Charles Ward sat up in his room reading the new-found book and papers, and

when day came he did not desist. His meals, on his urgent request when his mother called to

see what was amiss, were sent up to him; and in the afternoon he appeared only briefly when

the men came to install the Curwen picture and mantelpiece in his study. The next night he

slept in snatches in his clothes, meanwhile wrestling feverishly with the unravelling of the

cipher manuscript. In the morning his mother saw that he was at work on the photostatic copy

of the Hutchinson cipher, which he had frequently shewn her before; but in response to her

query he said that the Curwen key could not be applied to it. That afternoon he abandoned

his work and watched the men fascinatedly as they finished their installation of the picture

with its woodwork above a cleverly realistic electric log, setting the mock-fireplace and

overmantel a little out from the north wall as if a chimney existed, and boxing in the sides with

panelling to match the room‘s. The front panel holding the picture was sawn and hinged to

allow cupboard space behind it. After the workmen went he moved his work into the study and

sat down before it with his eyes half on the cipher and half on the portrait which stared back at

him like a year-adding and century-recalling mirror.

His parents, subsequently recalling his conduct at this period, give interesting details anent

the policy of concealment which he practiced. Before servants he seldom hid any paper which

he might be studying, since he rightly assumed that Curwen‘s intricate and archaic

chirography would be too much for them. With his parents, however, he was more

circumspect; and unless the manuscript in question were a cipher, or a mere mass of cryptic

symbols and unknown ideographs (as that entitled ―To Him Who Shal Come After etc.‖

seemed to be), he would cover it with some convenient paper until his caller had departed. At

night he kept the papers under lock and key in an antique cabinet of his, where he also

placed them whenever he left the room. He soon resumed fairly regular hours and habits,

except that his long walks and other outside interests seemed to cease. The opening of

school, where he now began his senior year, seemed a great bore to him; and he frequently

asserted his determination never to bother with college. He had, he said, important special

investigations to make, which would provide him with more avenues toward knowledge and

the humanities than any university which the world could boast.

Naturally, only one who had always been more or less studious, eccentric, and solitary could

have pursued this course for many days without attracting notice. Ward, however, was

constitutionally a scholar and a hermit; hence his parents were less surprised than regretful at

the close confinement and secrecy he adopted. At the same time, both his father and mother

thought it odd that he would shew them no scrap of his treasure-trove, nor give any

connected account of such data as he had deciphered. This reticence he explained away as

due to a wish to wait until he might announce some connected revelation, but as the weeks

passed without further disclosures there began to grow up between the youth and his family a

kind of constraint; intensified in his mother‘s case by her manifest disapproval of all Curwen

delvings.

During October Ward began visiting the libraries again, but no longer for the antiquarian

matter of his former days. Witchcraft and magic, occultism and daemonology, were what he

sought now; and when Providence sources proved unfruitful he would take the train for

Boston and tap the wealth of the great library in Copley Square, the Widener Library at

Harvard, or the Zion Research Library in Brookline, where certain rare works on Biblical

subjects are available. He bought extensively, and fitted up a whole additional set of shelves

in his study for newly acquired works on uncanny subjects; while during the Christmas

holidays he made a round of out-of-town trips including one to Salem to consult certain

records at the Essex Institute.

About the middle of January, 1920, there entered Ward‘s bearing an element of triumph which

he did not explain, and he was no more found at work upon the Hutchinson cipher. Instead,

he inaugurated a dual policy of chemical research and record-scanning; fitting up for the one

a laboratory in the unused attic of the house, and for the latter haunting all the sources of vital

statistics in Providence. Local dealers in drugs and scientific supplies, later questioned, gave

astonishingly queer and meaningless catalogues of the substances and instruments he

purchased; but clerks at the State House, the City Hall, and the various libraries agree as to

the definite object of his second interest. He was searching intensely and feverishly for the

grave of Joseph Curwen, from whose slate slab an older generation had so wisely blotted the

name.

Little by little there grew upon the Ward family the conviction that something was wrong.

Charles had had freaks and changes of minor interests before, but this growing secrecy and

absorption in strange pursuits was unlike even him. His school work was the merest pretence;

and although he failed in no test, it could be seen that the old application had all vanished. He

had other concernments now; and when not in his new laboratory with a score of obsolete

alchemical books, could be found either poring over old burial records down town or glued to

his volumes of occult lore in his study, where the startlingly—one almost fancied

increasingly—similar features of Joseph Curwen stared blandly at him from the great

overmantel on the north wall.

Late in March Ward added to his archive-searching a ghoulish series of rambles about the

various ancient cemeteries of the city. The cause appeared later, when it was learned from

City Hall clerks that he had probably found an important clue. His quest had suddenly shifted

from the grave of Joseph Curwen to that of one Naphthali Field; and this shift was explained

when, upon going over the files that he had been over, the investigators actually found a

fragmentary record of Curwen‘s burial which had escaped the general obliteration, and which

stated that the curious leaden coffin had been interred ―10 ft. S. and 5 ft. W. of Naphthali

Field‘s grave in ye—‖. The lack of a specified burying-ground in the surviving entry greatly

complicated the search, and Naphthali Field‘s grave seemed as elusive as that of Curwen;

but here no systematic effacement had existed, and one might reasonably be expected to

stumble on the stone itself even if its record had perished. Hence the rambles—from which St.

John‘s (the former King‘s) Churchyard and the ancient Congregational burying-ground in the

midst of Swan Point Cemetery were excluded, since other statistics had shewn that the only

Naphthali Field (obiit 1729) whose grave could have been meant had been a Baptist.

It was toward May when Dr. Willett, at the request of the senior Ward, and fortified with all the

Curwen data which the family had gleaned from Charles in his non-secretive days, talked with

the young man. The interview was of little value or conclusiveness, for Willett felt at every

moment that Charles was thoroughly master of himself and in touch with matters of real

importance; but it at least forced the secretive youth to offer some rational explanation of his

recent demeanour. Of a pallid, impassive type not easily shewing embarrassment, Ward

seemed quite ready to discuss his pursuits, though not to reveal their object. He stated that

the papers of his ancestor had contained some remarkable secrets of early scientific

knowledge, for the most part in cipher, of an apparent scope comparable only to the

discoveries of Friar Bacon and perhaps surpassing even those. They were, however,

meaningless except when correlated with a body of learning now wholly obsolete; so that their

immediate presentation to a world equipped only with modern science would rob them of all

impressiveness and dramatic significance. To take their vivid place in the history of human

thought they must first be correlated by one familiar with the background out of which they

evolved, and to this task of correlation Ward was now devoting himself. He was seeking to

acquire as fast as possible those neglected arts of old which a true interpreter of the Curwen

data must possess, and hoped in time to make a full announcement and presentation of the

utmost interest to mankind and to the world of thought. Not even Einstein, he declared, could

more profoundly revolutionise the current conception of things.

As to his graveyard search, whose object he freely admitted, but the details of whose

progress he did not relate, he said he had reason to think that Joseph Curwen‘s mutilated

headstone bore certain mystic symbols—carved from directions in his will and ignorantly

spared by those who had effaced the name—which were absolutely essential to the final

solution of his cryptic system. Curwen, he believed, had wished to guard his secret with care;

and had consequently distributed the data in an exceedingly curious fashion. When Dr. Willett

asked to see the mystic documents, Ward displayed much reluctance and tried to put him off

with such things as photostatic copies of the Hutchinson cipher and Orne formulae and

diagrams; but finally shewed him the exteriors of some of the real Curwen finds—the ―Journall

and Notes”, the cipher (title in cipher also), and the formula-filled message ―To Him Who Shal

Come After”—and let him glance inside such as were in obscure characters.

He also opened the diary at a page carefully selected for its innocuousness and gave Willett a

glimpse of Curwen‘s connected handwriting in English. The doctor noted very closely the

crabbed and complicated letters, and the general aura of the seventeenth century which clung

round both penmanship and style despite the writer‘s survival into the eighteenth century, and

became quickly certain that the document was genuine. The text itself was relatively trivial,

and Willett recalled only a fragment:

―Wedn. 16 Octr. 1754. My Sloope the Wakeful this Day putt in from London with XX

newe Men pick‘d up in ye Indies, Spaniards from Martineco and 2 Dutch Men from

Surinam. Ye Dutch Men are like to Desert from have‘g hearde Somewhat ill of

these Ventures, but I will see to ye Inducing of them to Staye. ffor Mr. Knight Dexter

of ye Boy and Book 120 Pieces Camblets, 100 Pieces Assrtd. Cambleteens, 20

Pieces blue Duffles, 100 Pieces Shalloons, 50 Pieces Calamancoes, 300 Pieces

each, Shendsoy and Humhums. ffor Mr. Green at ye Elephant 50 Gallon Cyttles,

20 Warm‘g Pannes, 15 Bake Cyttles, 10 pr. Smoke‘g Tonges. ffor Mr. Perrigo 1 Sett

of Awles, ffor Mr. Nightingale 50 Reames prime Foolscap. Say‘d ye SABAOTH

thrice last Nighte but None appear‘d. I must heare more from Mr. H. in

Transylvania, tho‘ it is Harde reach‘g him and exceeding strange he can not give

me the Use of what he hath so well us‘d these hundred yeares. Simon hath not

Writ these V. Weekes, but I expecte soon hear‘g from him.‖

When upon reaching this point Dr. Willett turned the leaf he was quickly checked by Ward,

who almost snatched the book from his grasp. All that the doctor had a chance to see on the

newly opened page was a brief pair of sentences; but these, strangely enough, lingered

tenaciously in his memory. They ran: ―Ye Verse from Liber-Damnatus be‘g spoke V

Roodmasses and IV Hallows-Eves, I am Hopeful ye Thing is breed‘g Outside ye Spheres. It

will drawe One who is to Come, if I can make sure he shal bee, and he shall think on Past

thinges and look back thro‘ all ye yeares, against ye which I must have ready ye Saltes or

That to make ‘em with.‖

Willett saw no more, but somehow this small glimpse gave a new and vague terror to the

painted features of Joseph Curwen which stared blandly down from the overmantel. Ever after

that he entertained the odd fancy—which his medical skill of course assured him was only a

fancy—that the eyes of the portrait had a sort of wish, if not an actual tendency, to follow

young Charles Ward as he moved about the room. He stopped before leaving to study the

picture closely, marvelling at its resemblance to Charles and memorising every minute detail

of the cryptical, colourless face, even down to a slight scar or pit in the smooth brow above

the right eye. Cosmo Alexander, he decided, was a painter worthy of the Scotland that

produced Raeburn, and a teacher worthy of his illustrious pupil Gilbert Stuart.

Assured by the doctor that Charles‘s mental health was in no danger, but that on the other

hand he was engaged in researches which might prove of real importance, the Wards were

more lenient than they might otherwise have been when during the following June the youth

made positive his refusal to attend college. He had, he declared, studies of much more vital

importance to pursue; and intimated a wish to go abroad the following year in order to avail

himself of certain sources of data not existing in America. The senior Ward, while denying this

latter wish as absurd for a boy of only eighteen, acquiesced regarding the university; so that

after a none too brilliant graduation from the Moses Brown School there ensued for Charles a

three-year period of intensive occult study and graveyard searching. He became recognised

as an eccentric, and dropped even more completely from the sight of his family‘s friends than

he had been before; keeping close to his work and only occasionally making trips to other

cities to consult obscure records. Once he went south to talk with a strange old mulatto who

dwelt in a swamp and about whom a newspaper had printed a curious article. Again he

sought a small village in the Adirondacks whence reports of certain odd ceremonial practices

had come. But still his parents forbade him the trip to the Old World which he desired.

Coming of age in April, 1923, and having previously inherited a small competence from his

maternal grandfather, Ward determined at last to take the European trip hitherto denied him.

Of his proposed itinerary he would say nothing save that the needs of his studies would carry

him to many places, but he promised to write his parents fully and faithfully. When they saw

he could not be dissuaded, they ceased all opposition and helped as best they could; so that

in June the young man sailed for Liverpool with the farewell blessings of his father and

mother, who accompanied him to Boston and waved him out of sight from the White Star pier

in Charlestown. Letters soon told of his safe arrival, and of his securing good quarters in

Great Russell Street, London; where he proposed to stay, shunning all family friends, till he

had exhausted the resources of the British Museum in a certain direction. Of his daily life he

wrote but little, for there was little to write. Study and experiment consumed all his time, and

he mentioned a laboratory which he had established in one of his rooms. That he said nothing

of antiquarian rambles in the glamorous old city with its luring skyline of ancient domes and

steeples and its tangles of roads and alleys whose mystic convolutions and sudden vistas

alternately beckon and surprise, was taken by his parents as a good index of the degree to

which his new interests had engrossed his mind.

In June, 1924, a brief note told of his departure for Paris, to which he had before made one or

two flying trips for material in the Bibliothèque Nationale. For three months thereafter he sent

only postal cards, giving an address in the Rue St. Jacques and referring to a special search

among rare manuscripts in the library of an unnamed private collector. He avoided

acquaintances, and no tourists brought back reports of having seen him. Then came a

silence, and in October the Wards received a picture card from Prague, Czecho-Slovakia,

stating that Charles was in that ancient town for the purpose of conferring with a certain very

aged man supposed to be the last living possessor of some very curious mediaeval

information. He gave an address in the Neustadt, and announced no move till the following

January; when he dropped several cards from Vienna telling of his passage through that city

on the way toward a more easterly region whither one of his correspondents and fellow-

delvers into the occult had invited him.

The next card was from Klausenburg in Transylvania, and told of Ward‘s progress toward his

destination. He was going to visit a Baron Ferenczy, whose estate lay in the mountains east of

Rakus; and was to be addressed at Rakus in the care of that nobleman. Another card from

Rakus a week later, saying that his host‘s carriage had met him and that he was leaving the

village for the mountains, was his last message for a considerable time; indeed, he did not

reply to his parents‘ frequent letters until May, when he wrote to discourage the plan of his

mother for a meeting in London, Paris, or Rome during the summer, when the elder Wards

were planning to travel in Europe. His researches, he said, were such that he could not leave

his present quarters; while the situation of Baron Ferenczy‘s castle did not favour visits. It was

on a crag in the dark wooded mountains, and the region was so shunned by the country folk

that normal people could not help feeling ill at ease. Moreover, the Baron was not a person

likely to appeal to correct and conservative New England gentlefolk. His aspect and manners

had idiosyncrasies, and his age was so great as to be disquieting. It would be better, Charles

said, if his parents would wait for his return to Providence; which could scarcely be far distant.

That return did not, however, take place until May, 1926, when after a few heralding cards the

young wanderer quietly slipped into New York on the Homeric and traversed the long miles to

Providence by motor-coach, eagerly drinking in the green rolling hills, the fragrant,

blossoming orchards, and the white steepled towns of vernal Connecticut; his first taste of

ancient New England in nearly four years. When the coach crossed the Pawcatuck and

entered Rhode Island amidst the faery goldenness of a late spring afternoon his heart beat

with quickened force, and the entry to Providence along Reservoir and Elmwood avenues

was a breathless and wonderful thing despite the depths of forbidden lore to which he had

delved. At the high square where Broad, Weybosset, and Empire Streets join, he saw before

and below him in the fire of sunset the pleasant, remembered houses and domes and

steeples of the old town; and his head swam curiously as the vehicle rolled down the terminal

behind the Biltmore, bringing into view the great dome and soft, roof-pierced greenery of the

ancient hill across the river, and the tall colonial spire of the First Baptist Church limned pink

in the magic evening light against the fresh springtime verdure of its precipitous background.

Old Providence! It was this place and the mysterious forces of its long, continuous history

which had brought him into being, and which had drawn him back toward marvels and secrets

whose boundaries no prophet might fix. Here lay the arcana, wondrous or dreadful as the

case might be, for which all his years of travel and application had been preparing him. A

taxicab whirled him through Post Office Square with its glimpse of the river, the old Market

House, and the head of the bay, and up the steep curved slope of Waterman Street to

Prospect, where the vast gleaming dome and sunset-flushed Ionic columns of the Christian

Science Church beckoned northward. Then eight squares past the fine old estates his childish

eyes had known, and the quaint brick sidewalks so often trodden by his youthful feet. And at

last the little white overtaken farmhouse on the right, on the left the classic Adam porch and

stately bayed facade of the great brick house where he was born. It was twilight, and Charles

Dexter Ward had come home.

A school of alienists slightly less academic than Dr. Lyman‘s assign to Ward‘s European trip

the beginning of his true madness. Admitting that he was sane when he started, they believe

that his conduct upon returning implies a disastrous change. But even to this claim Dr. Willett

refuses to accede. There was, he insists, something later; and the queernesses of the youth

at this stage he attributes to the practice of rituals learned abroad—odd enough things, to be

sure, but by no means implying mental aberration on the part of their celebrant. Ward himself,

though visibly aged and hardened, was still normal in his general reactions; and in several

talks with Willett displayed a balance which no madman—even an incipient one—could feign

continuously for long. What elicited the notion of insanity at this period were the sounds heard

at all hours from Ward‘s attic laboratory, in which he kept himself most of the time. There were

chantings and repetitions, and thunderous declamations in uncanny rhythms; and although

these sounds were always in Ward‘s own voice, there was something in the quality of that

voice, and in the accents of the formulae it pronounced, which could not but chill the blood of

every hearer. It was noticed that Nig, the venerable and beloved black cat of the household,

bristled and arched his back perceptibly when certain of the tones were heard.

The odours occasionally wafted from the laboratory were likewise exceedingly strange.

Sometimes they were very noxious, but more often they were aromatic, with a haunting,

elusive quality which seemed to have the power of inducing fantastic images. People who

smelled them had a tendency to glimpse momentary mirages of enormous vistas, with

strange hills or endless avenues of sphinxes and hippogriffs stretching off into infinite

distance. Ward did not resume his old-time rambles, but applied himself diligently to the

strange books he had brought home, and to equally strange delvings within his quarters;

explaining that European sources had greatly enlarged the possibilities of his work, and

promising great revelations in the years to come. His older aspect increased to a startling

degree his resemblance to the Curwen portrait in his library; and Dr. Willett would often pause

by the latter after a call, marvelling at the virtual identity, and reflecting that only the small pit

above the picture‘s right eye now remained to differentiate the long-dead wizard from the

living youth. These calls of Willett‘s, undertaken at the request of the senior Wards, were

curious affairs. Ward at no time repulsed the doctor, but the latter saw that he could never

reach the young man‘s inner psychology. Frequently he noted peculiar things about; little wax

images of grotesque design on the shelves or tables, and the half-erased remnants of circles,

triangles, and pentagrams in chalk or charcoal on the cleared central space of the large room.

And always in the night those rhythms and incantations thundered, till it became very difficult

to keep servants or suppress furtive talk of Charles‘s madness.

In January, 1927, a peculiar incident occurred. One night about midnight, as Charles was

chanting a ritual whose weird cadence echoed unpleasantly through the house below, there

came a sudden gust of chill wind from the bay, and a faint, obscure trembling of the earth

which everyone in the neighbourhood noted. At the same time the cat exhibited phenomenal

traces of fright, while dogs bayed for as much as a mile around. This was the prelude to a

sharp thunderstorm, anomalous for the season, which brought with it such a crash that Mr.

and Mrs. Ward believed the house had been struck. They rushed upstairs to see what

damage had been done, but Charles met them at the door to the attic; pale, resolute, and

portentous, with an almost fearsome combination of triumph and seriousness on his face. He

assured them that the house had not really been struck, and that the storm would soon be

over. They paused, and looking through a window saw that he was indeed right; for the

lightning flashed farther and farther off, whilst the trees ceased to bend in the strange frigid

gust from the water. The thunder sank to a sort of dull mumbling chuckle and finally died

away. Stars came out, and the stamp of triumph on Charles Ward‘s face crystallised into a

very singular expression.

For two months or more after this incident Ward was less confined than usual to his

laboratory. He exhibited a curious interest in the weather, and made odd inquiries about the

date of the spring thawing of the ground. One night late in March he left the house after

midnight, and did not return till almost morning; when his mother, being wakeful, heard a

rumbling motor draw up to the carriage entrance. Muffled oaths could be distinguished, and

Mrs. Ward, rising and going to the window, saw four dark figures removing a long, heavy box

from a truck at Charles‘s direction and carrying it within by the side door. She heard laboured

breathing and ponderous footfalls on the stairs, and finally a dull thumping in the attic; after

which the footfalls descended again, and the four men reappeared outside and drove off in

their truck.

The next day Charles resumed his strict attic seclusion, drawing down the dark shades of his

laboratory windows and appearing to be working on some metal substance. He would open

the door to no one, and steadfastly refused all proffered food. About noon a wrenching sound

followed by a terrible cry and a fall were heard, but when Mrs. Ward rapped at the door her

son at length answered faintly, and told her that nothing had gone amiss. The hideous and

indescribable stench now welling out was absolutely harmless and unfortunately necessary.

Solitude was the one prime essential, and he would appear later for dinner. That afternoon,

after the conclusion of some odd hissing sounds which came from behind the locked portal,

he did finally appear; wearing an extremely haggard aspect and forbidding anyone to enter

the laboratory upon any pretext. This, indeed, proved the beginning of a new policy of

secrecy; for never afterward was any other person permitted to visit either the mysterious

garret workroom or the adjacent storeroom which he cleaned out, furnished roughly, and

added to his inviolably private domain as a sleeping apartment. Here he lived, with books

brought up from his library beneath, till the time he purchased the Pawtuxet bungalow and

moved to it all his scientific effects.

In the evening Charles secured the paper before the rest of the family and damaged part of it

through an apparent accident. Later on Dr. Willett, having fixed the date from statements by

various members of the household, looked up an intact copy at the Journal office and found

that in the destroyed section the following small item had occurred:

Nocturnal Diggers Surprised in North Burial Ground

Robert Hart, night watchman at the North Burial Ground, this morning discovered a

party of several men with a motor truck in the oldest part of the cemetery, but

apparently frightened them off before they had accomplished whatever their object

may have been.

The discovery took place at about four o‘clock, when Hart‘s attention was attracted

by the sound of a motor outside his shelter. Investigating, he saw a large truck on

the main drive several rods away; but could not reach it before the sound of his

feet on the gravel had revealed his approach. The men hastily placed a large box

in the truck and drove away toward the street before they could be overtaken; and

since no known grave was disturbed, Hart believes that this box was an object

which they wished to bury.

The diggers must have been at work for a long while before detection, for Hart

found an enormous hole dug at a considerable distance back from the roadway in

the lot of Amasa Field, where most of the old stones have long ago disappeared.

The hole, a place as large and deep as a grave, was empty; and did not coincide

with any interment mentioned in the cemetery records.

Sergt. Riley of the Second Station viewed the spot and gave the opinion that the

hole was dug by bootleggers rather gruesomely and ingeniously seeking a safe

cache for liquor in a place not likely to be disturbed. In reply to questions Hart said

he thought the escaping truck had headed up Rochambeau Avenue, though he

could not be sure.

During the next few days Ward was seldom seen by his family. Having added sleeping

quarters to his attic realm, he kept closely to himself there, ordering food brought to the door

and not taking it in until after the servant had gone away. The droning of monotonous

formulae and the chanting of bizarre rhythms recurred at intervals, while at other times

occasional listeners could detect the sound of tinkling glass, hissing chemicals, running water,

or roaring gas flames. Odours of the most unplaceable quality, wholly unlike any before noted,

hung at times around the door; and the air of tension observable in the young recluse

whenever he did venture briefly forth was such as to excite the keenest speculation. Once he

made a hasty trip to the Athenaeum for a book he required, and again he hired a messenger

to fetch him a highly obscure volume from Boston. Suspense was written portentously over

the whole situation, and both the family and Dr. Willett confessed themselves wholly at a loss

what to do or think about it.

Then on the fifteenth of April a strange development occurred. While nothing appeared to

grow different in kind, there was certainly a very terrible difference in degree; and Dr. Willett

somehow attaches great significance to the change. The day was Good Friday, a

circumstance of which the servants made much, but which others quite naturally dismiss as

an irrelevant coincidence. Late in the afternoon young Ward began repeating a certain

formula in a singularly loud voice, at the same time burning some substance so pungent that

its fumes escaped over the entire house. The formula was so plainly audible in the hall

outside the locked door that Mrs. Ward could not help memorising it as she waited and

listened anxiously, and later on she was able to write it down at Dr. Willett‘s request. It ran as

follows, and experts have told Dr. Willett that its very close analogue can be found in the

mystic writings of ―Eliphas Levi‖, that cryptic soul who crept through a crack in the forbidden

door and glimpsed the frightful vistas of the void beyond:

―Per Adonai Eloim, Adonai Jehova,

Adonai Sabaoth, Metraton On Agla Mathon,

verbum pythonicum, mysterium salamandrae,

conventus sylvorum, antra gnomorum,

daemonia Coeli Gad, Almousin, Gibor, Jehosua,

Evam, Zariatnatmik, veni, veni, veni.‖

This had been going on for two hours without change or intermission when over all the

neighbourhood a pandaemoniac howling of dogs set in. The extent of this howling can be

judged from the space it received in the papers the next day, but to those in the Ward

household it was overshadowed by the odour which instantly followed it; a hideous, all-

pervasive odour which none of them had ever smelt before or have ever smelt since. In the

midst of this mephitic flood there came a very perceptible flash like that of lightning, which

would have been blinding and impressive but for the daylight around; and then was heard the

voice that no listener can ever forget because of its thunderous remoteness, its incredible

depth, and its eldritch dissimilarity to Charles Ward‘s voice. It shook the house, and was

clearly heard by at least two neighbours above the howling of the dogs. Mrs. Ward, who had

been listening in despair outside her son‘s locked laboratory, shivered as she recognised its

hellish import; for Charles had told her of its evil fame in dark books, and of the manner in

which it had thundered, according to the Fenner letters, above the doomed Pawtuxet

farmhouse on the night of Joseph Curwen‘s annihilation. There was no mistaking that

nightmare phrase, for Charles had described it too vividly in the old days when he had talked

frankly of his Curwen investigations. And yet it was only this fragment of an archaic and

forgotten language: ―DIES MIES JESCHET BOENE DOESEF DOUVEMA ENITEMAUS‖.

Close upon this thundering there came a momentary darkening of the daylight, though sunset

was still an hour distant, and then a puff of added odour different from the first but equally

unknown and intolerable. Charles was chanting again now and his mother could hear

syllables that sounded like ―Yi-nash-Yog-Sothoth-he-lgeb-fi-throdog‖—ending in a ―Yah!‖

whose maniacal force mounted in an ear-splitting crescendo. A second later all previous

memories were effaced by the wailing scream which burst out with frantic explosiveness and

gradually changed form to a paroxysm of diabolic and hysterical laughter. Mrs. Ward, with the

mingled fear and blind courage of maternity, advanced and knocked affrightedly at the

concealing panels, but obtained no sign of recognition. She knocked again, but paused

nervelessly as a second shriek arose, this one unmistakably in the familiar voice of her son,

and sounding concurrently with the still bursting cachinnations of that other voice. Presently

she fainted, although she is still unable to recall the precise and immediate cause. Memory

sometimes makes merciful deletions.

Mr. Ward returned from the business section at about quarter past six; and not finding his wife

downstairs, was told by the frightened servants that she was probably watching at Charles‘s

door, from which the sounds had been far stranger than ever before. Mounting the stairs at

once, he saw Mrs. Ward stretched at full length on the floor of the corridor outside the

laboratory; and realising that she had fainted, hastened to fetch a glass of water from a set

bowl in a neighbouring alcove. Dashing the cold fluid in her face, he was heartened to

observe an immediate response on her part, and was watching the bewildered opening of her

eyes when a chill shot through him and threatened to reduce him to the very state from which

she was emerging. For the seemingly silent laboratory was not as silent as it had appeared to

be, but held the murmurs of a tense, muffled conversation in tones too low for

comprehension, yet of a quality profoundly disturbing to the soul.

It was not, of course, new for Charles to mutter formulae; but this muttering was definitely

different. It was so palpably a dialogue, or imitation of a dialogue, with the regular alteration of

inflections suggesting question and answer, statement and response. One voice was

undisguisedly that of Charles, but the other had a depth and hollowness which the youth‘s

best powers of ceremonial mimicry had scarcely approached before. There was something

hideous, blasphemous, and abnormal about it, and but for a cry from his recovering wife

which cleared his mind by arousing his protective instincts it is not likely that Theodore

Howland Ward could have maintained for nearly a year more his old boast that he had never

fainted. As it was, he seized his wife in his arms and bore her quickly downstairs before she

could notice the voices which had so horribly disturbed him. Even so, however, he was not

quick enough to escape catching something himself which caused him to stagger

dangerously with his burden. For Mrs. Ward‘s cry had evidently been heard by others than he,

and there had come from behind the locked door the first distinguishable words which that

masked and terrible colloquy had yielded. They were merely an excited caution in Charles‘s

own voice, but somehow their implications held a nameless fright for the father who

overheard them. The phrase was just this:

―Sshh!—write!”

Mr. and Mrs. Ward conferred at some length after dinner, and the former resolved to have a

firm and serious talk with Charles that very night. No matter how important the object, such

conduct could no longer be permitted; for these latest developments transcended every limit

of sanity and formed a menace to the order and nervous well-being of the entire household.

The youth must indeed have taken complete leave of his senses, since only downright

madness could have prompted the wild screams and imaginary conversations in assumed

voices which the present day had brought forth. All this must be stopped, or Mrs. Ward would

be made ill and the keeping of servants become an impossibility.

Mr. Ward rose at the close of the meal and started upstairs for Charles‘s laboratory. On the

third floor, however, he paused at the sounds which he heard proceeding from the now

disused library of his son. Books were apparently being flung about and papers wildly rustled,

and upon stepping to the door Mr. Ward beheld the youth within, excitedly assembling a vast

armful of literary matter of every size and shape. Charles‘s aspect was very drawn and

haggard, and he dropped his entire load with a start at the sound of his father‘s voice. At the

elder man‘s command he sat down, and for some time listened to the admonitions he had so

long deserved. There was no scene. At the end of the lecture he agreed that his father was

right, and that his noises, mutterings, incantations, and chemical odours were indeed

inexcusable nuisances. He agreed to a policy of greater quiet, though insisting on a

prolongation of his extreme privacy. Much of his future work, he said, was in any case purely

book research; and he could obtain quarters elsewhere for any such vocal rituals as might be

necessary at a later stage. For the fright and fainting of his mother he expressed the keenest

contrition, and explained that the conversation later heard was part of an elaborate symbolism

designed to create a certain mental atmosphere. His use of abstruse technical terms

somewhat bewildered Mr. Ward, but the parting impression was one of undeniable sanity and

poise despite a mysterious tension of the utmost gravity. The interview was really quite

inconclusive, and as Charles picked up his armful and left the room Mr. Ward hardly knew

what to make of the entire business. It was as mysterious as the death of poor old Nig, whose

stiffening form had been found an hour before in the basement, with staring eyes and fear-

distorted mouth.

Driven by some vague detective instinct, the bewildered parent now glanced curiously at the

vacant shelves to see what his son had taken up to the attic. The youth‘s library was plainly

and rigidly classified, so that one might tell at a glance the books or at least the kind of books

which had been withdrawn. On this occasion Mr. Ward was astonished to find that nothing of

the occult or the antiquarian, beyond what had been previously removed, was missing. These

new withdrawals were all modern items; histories, scientific treatises, geographies, manuals

of literature, philosophic works, and certain contemporary newspapers and magazines. It was

a very curious shift from Charles Ward‘s recent run of reading, and the father paused in a

growing vortex of perplexity and an engulfing sense of strangeness. The strangeness was a

very poignant sensation, and almost clawed at his chest as he strove to see just what was

wrong around him. Something was indeed wrong, and tangibly as well as spiritually so. Ever

since he had been in this room he had known that something was amiss, and at last it

dawned upon him what it was.

On the north wall rose still the ancient carved overmantel from the house in Olney Court, but

to the cracked and precariously restored oils of the large Curwen portrait disaster had come.

Time and unequal heating had done their work at last, and at some time since the room‘s last

cleaning the worst had happened. Peeling clear of the wood, curling tighter and tighter, and

finally crumbling into small bits with what must have been malignly silent suddenness, the

portrait of Joseph Curwen had resigned forever its staring surveillance of the youth it so

strangely resembled, and now lay scattered on the floor as a thin coating of fine bluish-grey

dust.

IV. A Mutation and a Madness

In the week following that memorable Good Friday Charles Ward was seen more often than

usual, and was continually carrying books between his library and the attic laboratory. His

actions were quiet and rational, but he had a furtive, hunted look which his mother did not like,

and developed an incredibly ravenous appetite as gauged by his demands upon the cook. Dr.

Willett had been told of those Friday noises and happenings, and on the following Tuesday

had a long conversation with the youth in the library where the picture stared no more. The

interview was, as always, inconclusive; but Willett is still ready to swear that the youth was

sane and himself at the time. He held out promises of an early revelation, and spoke of the

need of securing a laboratory elsewhere. At the loss of the portrait he grieved singularly little

considering his first enthusiasm over it, but seemed to find something of positive humour in its

sudden crumbling.

About the second week Charles began to be absent from the house for long periods, and one

day when good old black Hannah came to help with the spring cleaning she mentioned his

frequent visits to the old house in Olney Court, where he would come with a large valise and

perform curious delvings in the cellar. He was always very liberal to her and to old Asa, but

seemed more worried than he used to be; which grieved her very much, since she had

watched him grow up from birth. Another report of his doings came from Pawtuxet, where

some friends of the family saw him at a distance a surprising number of times. He seemed to

haunt the resort and canoe-house of Rhodes-on-the-Pawtuxet, and subsequent inquiries by

Dr. Willett at that place brought out the fact that his purpose was always to secure access to

the rather hedged-in river-bank, along which he would walk toward the north, usually not

reappearing for a very long while.

Late in May came a momentary revival of ritualistic sounds in the attic laboratory which

brought a stern reproof from Mr. Ward and a somewhat distracted promise of amendment

from Charles. It occurred one morning, and seemed to form a resumption of the imaginary

conversation noted on that turbulent Good Friday. The youth was arguing or remonstrating

hotly with himself, for there suddenly burst forth a perfectly distinguishable series of clashing

shouts in differentiated tones like alternate demands and denials which caused Mrs. Ward to

run upstairs and listen at the door. She could hear no more than a fragment whose only plain

words were ―must have it red for three months‖, and upon her knocking all sounds ceased at

once. When Charles was later questioned by his father he said that there were certain

conflicts of spheres of consciousness which only great skill could avoid, but which he would

try to transfer to other realms.

About the middle of June a queer nocturnal incident occurred. In the early evening there had

been some noise and thumping in the laboratory upstairs, and Mr. Ward was on the point of

investigating when it suddenly quieted down. That midnight, after the family had retired, the

butler was nightlocking the front door when according to his statement Charles appeared

somewhat blunderingly and uncertainly at the foot of the stairs with a large suitcase and made

signs that he wished egress. The youth spoke no word, but the worthy Yorkshireman caught

one sight of his fevered eyes and trembled causelessly. He opened the door and young Ward

went out, but in the morning he presented his resignation to Mrs. Ward. There was, he said,

something unholy in the glance Charles had fixed on him. It was no way for a young

gentleman to look at an honest person, and he could not possibly stay another night. Mrs.

Ward allowed the man to depart, but she did not value his statement highly. To fancy Charles

in a savage state that night was quite ridiculous, for as long as she had remained awake she

had heard faint sounds from the laboratory above; sounds as if of sobbing and pacing, and of

a sighing which told only of despair‘s profoundest depths. Mrs. Ward had grown used to

listening for sounds in the night, for the mystery of her son was fast driving all else from her

mind.

The next evening, much as on another evening nearly three months before, Charles Ward

seized the newspaper very early and accidentally lost the main section. The matter was not

recalled till later, when Dr. Willett began checking up loose ends and searching out missing

links here and there. In the Journal office he found the section which Charles had lost, and

marked two items as of possible significance. They were as follows:

More Cemetery Delving

It was this morning discovered by Robert Hart, night watchman at the North Burial

Ground, that ghouls were again at work in the ancient portion of the cemetery. The

grave of Ezra Weeden, who was born in 1740 and died in 1824, according to his

uprooted and savagely splintered slate headstone, was found excavated and rifled,

the work being evidently done with a spade stolen from an adjacent tool-shed.

Whatever the contents may have been after more than a century of burial, all was

gone except a few slivers of decayed wood. There were no wheel tracks, but the

police have measured a single set of footprints which they found in the vicinity, and

which indicate the boots of a man of refinement.

Hart is inclined to link this incident with the digging discovered last March, when a

party in a motor truck were frightened away after making a deep excavation; but

Sergt. Riley of the Second Station discounts this theory and points to vital

differences in the two cases. In March the digging had been in a spot where no

grave was known; but this time a well-marked and cared-for grave had been rifled

with every evidence of deliberate purpose, and with a conscious malignity

expressed in the splintering of the slab which had been intact up to the day before.

Members of the Weeden family, notified of the happening, expressed their

astonishment and regret; and were wholly unable to think of any enemy who would

care to violate the grave of their ancestor. Hazard Weeden of 598 Angell Street

recalls a family legend according to which Ezra Weeden was involved in some very

peculiar circumstances, not dishonourable to himself, shortly before the Revolution;

but of any modern feud or mystery he is frankly ignorant. Inspector Cunningham

has been assigned to the case, and hopes to uncover some valuable clues in the

near future.

Dogs Noisy in Pawtuxet

Residents of Pawtuxet were aroused about 3 a.m. today by a phenomenal baying

of dogs which seemed to centre near the river just north of Rhodes-on-the-

Pawtuxet. The volume and quality of the howling were unusually odd, according to

most who heard it; and Fred Lemdin, night watchman at Rhodes, declares it was

mixed with something very like the shrieks of a man in mortal terror and agony. A

sharp and very brief thunderstorm, which seemed to strike somewhere near the

bank of the river, put an end to the disturbance. Strange and unpleasant odours,

probably from the oil tanks along the bay, are popularly linked with this incident;

and may have had their share in exciting the dogs.

The aspect of Charles now became very haggard and hunted, and all agreed in retrospect

that he may have wished at this period to make some statement or confession from which

sheer terror withheld him. The morbid listening of his mother in the night brought out the fact

that he made frequent sallies abroad under cover of darkness, and most of the more

academic alienists unite at present in charging him with the revolting cases of vampirism

which the press so sensationally reported about this time, but which have not yet been

definitely traced to any known perpetrator. These cases, too recent and celebrated to need

detailed mention, involved victims of every age and type and seemed to cluster around two

distinct localities; the residential hill and the North End, near the Ward home, and the

suburban districts across the Cranston line near Pawtuxet. Both late wayfarers and sleepers

with open windows were attacked, and those who lived to tell the tale spoke unanimously of a

lean, lithe, leaping monster with burning eyes which fastened its teeth in the throat or upper

arm and feasted ravenously.

Dr. Willett, who refuses to date the madness of Charles Ward as far back as even this, is

cautious in attempting to explain these horrors. He has, he declares, certain theories of his

own; and limits his positive statements to a peculiar kind of negation. ―I will not,‖ he says,

―state who or what I believe perpetrated these attacks and murders, but I will declare that

Charles Ward was innocent of them. I have reason to be sure he was ignorant of the taste of

blood, as indeed his continued anaemic decline and increasing pallor prove better than any

verbal argument. Ward meddled with terrible things, but he has paid for it, and he was never a

monster or a villain. As for now—I don‘t like to think. A change came, and I‘m content to

believe that the old Charles Ward died with it. His soul did, anyhow, for that mad flesh that

vanished from Waite‘s hospital had another.‖

Willett speaks with authority, for he was often at the Ward home attending Mrs. Ward, whose

nerves had begun to snap under the strain. Her nocturnal listening had bred some morbid

hallucinations which she confided to the doctor with hesitancy, and which he ridiculed in

talking to her, although they made him ponder deeply when alone. These delusions always

concerned the faint sounds which she fancied she heard in the attic laboratory and bedroom,

and emphasised the occurrence of muffled sighs and sobbings at the most impossible times.

Early in July Willett ordered Mrs. Ward to Atlantic City for an indefinite recuperative sojourn,

and cautioned both Mr. Ward and the haggard and elusive Charles to write her only cheering

letters. It is probably to this enforced and reluctant escape that she owes her life and

continued sanity.

Not long after his mother‘s departure Charles Ward began negotiating for the Pawtuxet

bungalow. It was a squalid little wooden edifice with a concrete garage, perched high on the

sparsely settled bank of the river slightly above Rhodes, but for some odd reason the youth

would have nothing else. He gave the real-estate agencies no peace till one of them secured

it for him at an exorbitant price from a somewhat reluctant owner, and as soon as it was

vacant he took possession under cover of darkness, transporting in a great closed van the

entire contents of his attic laboratory, including the books both weird and modern which he

had borrowed from his study. He had this van loaded in the black small hours, and his father

recalls only a drowsy realisation of stifled oaths and stamping feet on the night the goods

were taken away. After that Charles moved back to his own old quarters on the third floor, and

never haunted the attic again.

To the Pawtuxet bungalow Charles transferred all the secrecy with which he had surrounded

his attic realm, save that he now appeared to have two sharers of his mysteries; a villainous-

looking Portuguese half-caste from the South Main St. waterfront who acted as a servant, and

a thin, scholarly stranger with dark glasses and a stubbly full beard of dyed aspect whose

status was evidently that of a colleague. Neighbours vainly tried to engage these odd persons

in conversation. The mulatto Gomes spoke very little English, and the bearded man, who

gave his name as Dr. Allen, voluntarily followed his example. Ward himself tried to be more

affable, but succeeded only in provoking curiosity with his rambling accounts of chemical

research. Before long queer tales began to circulate regarding the all-night burning of lights;

and somewhat later, after this burning had suddenly ceased, there rose still queerer tales of

disproportionate orders of meat from the butcher‘s and of the muffled shouting, declamation,

rhythmic chanting, and screaming supposed to come from some very deep cellar below the

place. Most distinctly the new and strange household was bitterly disliked by the honest

bourgeoisie of the vicinity, and it is not remarkable that dark hints were advanced connecting

the hated establishment with the current epidemic of vampiristic attacks and murders;

especially since the radius of that plague seemed now confined wholly to Pawtuxet and the

adjacent streets of Edgewood.

Ward spent most of his time at the bungalow, but slept occasionally at home and was still

reckoned a dweller beneath his father‘s roof. Twice he was absent from the city on week-long

trips, whose destinations have not yet been discovered. He grew steadily paler and more

emaciated even than before, and lacked some of his former assurance when repeating to Dr.

Willett his old, old story of vital research and future revelations. Willett often waylaid him at his

father‘s house, for the elder Ward was deeply worried and perplexed, and wished his son to

get as much sound oversight as could be managed in the case of so secretive and

independent an adult. The doctor still insists that the youth was sane even as late as this, and

adduces many a conversation to prove his point.

About September the vampirism declined, but in the following January Ward almost became

involved in serious trouble. For some time the nocturnal arrival and departure of motor trucks

at the Pawtuxet bungalow had been commented upon, and at this juncture an unforeseen

hitch exposed the nature of at least one item of their contents. In a lonely spot near Hope

Valley had occurred one of the frequent sordid waylayings of trucks by ―hi-jackers‖ in quest of

liquor shipments, but this time the robbers had been destined to receive the greater shock.

For the long cases they seized proved upon opening to contain some exceedingly gruesome

things; so gruesome, in fact, that the matter could not be kept quiet amongst the denizens of

the underworld. The thieves had hastily buried what they discovered, but when the State

Police got wind of the matter a careful search was made. A recently arrested vagrant, under

promise of immunity from prosecution on any additional charge, at last consented to guide a

party of troopers to the spot; and there was found in that hasty cache a very hideous and

shameful thing. It would not be well for the national—or even the international—sense of

decorum if the public were ever to know what was uncovered by that awestruck party. There

was no mistaking it, even by these far from studious officers; and telegrams to Washington

ensued with feverish rapidity.

The cases were addressed to Charles Ward at his Pawtuxet bungalow, and State and Federal

officials at once paid him a very forceful and serious call. They found him pallid and worried

with his two odd companions, and received from him what seemed to be a valid explanation

and evidence of innocence. He had needed certain anatomical specimens as part of a

programme of research whose depth and genuineness anyone who had known him in the last

decade could prove, and had ordered the required kind and number from agencies which he

had thought as reasonably legitimate as such things can be. Of the identity of the specimens

he had known absolutely nothing, and was properly shocked when the inspectors hinted at

the monstrous effect on public sentiment and national dignity which a knowledge of the matter

would produce. In this statement he was firmly sustained by his bearded colleague Dr. Allen,

whose oddly hollow voice carried even more conviction than his own nervous tones; so that in

the end the officials took no action, but carefully set down the New York name and address

which Ward gave them as a basis for a search which came to nothing. It is only fair to add

that the specimens were quickly and quietly restored to their proper places, and that the

general public will never know of their blasphemous disturbance.

On February 9, 1928, Dr. Willett received a letter from Charles Ward which he considers of

extraordinary importance, and about which he has frequently quarrelled with Dr. Lyman.

Lyman believes that this note contains positive proof of a well-developed case of dementia

praecox, but Willett on the other hand regards it as the last perfectly sane utterance of the

hapless youth. He calls especial attention to the normal character of the penmanship; which

though shewing traces of shattered nerves, is nevertheless distinctly Ward‘s own. The text in

full is as follows:

―100 Prospect St.

Providence, R.I.,

February 8, 1928.

―Dear Dr. Willett:—

―I feel that at last the time has come for me to make the disclosures which I have

so long promised you, and for which you have pressed me so often. The patience

you have shewn in waiting, and the confidence you have shewn in my mind and

integrity, are things I shall never cease to appreciate.

―And now that I am ready to speak, I must own with humiliation that no triumph

such as I dreamed of can ever be mine. Instead of triumph I have found terror, and

my talk with you will not be a boast of victory but a plea for help and advice in

saving both myself and the world from a horror beyond all human conception or

calculation. You recall what those Fenner letters said of the old raiding party at

Pawtuxet. That must all be done again, and quickly. Upon us depends more than

can be put into words—all civilisation, all natural law, perhaps even the fate of the

solar system and the universe. I have brought to light a monstrous abnormality, but

I did it for the sake of knowledge. Now for the sake of all life and Nature you must

help me thrust it back into the dark again.

―I have left that Pawtuxet place forever, and we must extirpate everything existing

there, alive or dead. I shall not go there again, and you must not believe it if you

ever hear that I am there. I will tell you why I say this when I see you. I have come

home for good, and wish you would call on me at the very first moment that you

can spare five or six hours continuously to hear what I have to say. It will take that

long—and believe me when I tell you that you never had a more genuine

professional duty than this. My life and reason are the very least things which hang

in the balance.

―I dare not tell my father, for he could not grasp the whole thing. But I have told him

of my danger, and he has four men from a detective agency watching the house. I

don‘t know how much good they can do, for they have against them forces which

even you could scarcely envisage or acknowledge. So come quickly if you wish to

see me alive and hear how you may help to save the cosmos from stark hell.

―Any time will do—I shall not be out of the house. Don‘t telephone ahead, for there

is no telling who or what may try to intercept you. And let us pray to whatever gods

there be that nothing may prevent this meeting.

―In utmost gravity and desperation,

―Charles Dexter Ward.‖

―P.S. Shoot Dr. Allen on sight and dissolve his body in acid. Don‘t burn it.‖

Dr. Willett received this note about 10:30 a.m., and immediately arranged to spare the whole

late afternoon and evening for the momentous talk, letting it extend on into the night as long

as might be necessary. He planned to arrive about four o‘clock, and through all the

intervening hours was so engulfed in every sort of wild speculation that most of his tasks were

very mechanically performed. Maniacal as the letter would have sounded to a stranger, Willett

had seen too much of Charles Ward‘s oddities to dismiss it as sheer raving. That something

very subtle, ancient, and horrible was hovering about he felt quite sure, and the reference to

Dr. Allen could almost be comprehended in view of what Pawtuxet gossip said of Ward‘s

enigmatical colleague. Willett had never seen the man, but had heard much of his aspect and

bearing, and could not but wonder what sort of eyes those much-discussed dark glasses

might conceal.

Promptly at four Dr. Willett presented himself at the Ward residence, but found to his

annoyance that Charles had not adhered to his determination to remain indoors. The guards

were there, but said that the young man seemed to have lost part of his timidity. He had that

morning done much apparently frightened arguing and protesting over the telephone, one of

the detectives said, replying to some unknown voice with phrases such as ―I am very tired

and must rest a while‖, ―I can‘t receive anyone for some time, you‘ll have to excuse me‖,

―Please postpone decisive action till we can arrange some sort of compromise‖, or ―I am very

sorry, but I must take a complete vacation from everything; I‘ll talk with you later‖. Then,

apparently gaining boldness through meditation, he had slipped out so quietly that no one had

seen him depart or knew that he had gone until he returned about one o‘clock and entered

the house without a word. He had gone upstairs, where a bit of his fear must have surged

back; for he was heard to cry out in a highly terrified fashion upon entering his library,

afterward trailing off into a kind of choking gasp. When, however, the butler had gone to

inquire what the trouble was, he had appeared at the door with a great show of boldness, and

had silently gestured the man away in a manner that terrified him unaccountably. Then he had

evidently done some rearranging of his shelves, for a great clattering and thumping and

creaking ensued; after which he had reappeared and left at once. Willett inquired whether or

not any message had been left, but was told that there was none. The butler seemed queerly

disturbed about something in Charles‘s appearance and manner, and asked solicitously if

there was much hope for a cure of his disordered nerves.

For almost two hours Dr. Willett waited vainly in Charles Ward‘s library, watching the dusty

shelves with their wide gaps where books had been removed, and smiling grimly at the

panelled overmantel on the north wall, whence a year before the suave features of old Joseph

Curwen had looked mildly down. After a time the shadows began to gather, and the sunset

cheer gave place to a vague growing terror which flew shadow-like before the night. Mr. Ward

finally arrived, and shewed much surprise and anger at his son‘s absence after all the pains

which had been taken to guard him. He had not known of Charles‘s appointment, and

promised to notify Willett when the youth returned. In bidding the doctor goodnight he

expressed his utter perplexity at his son‘s condition, and urged his caller to do all he could to

restore the boy to normal poise. Willett was glad to escape from that library, for something

frightful and unholy seemed to haunt it; as if the vanished picture had left behind a legacy of

evil. He had never liked that picture; and even now, strong-nerved though he was, there

lurked a quality in its vacant panel which made him feel an urgent need to get out into the

pure air as soon as possible.

The next morning Willett received a message from the senior Ward, saying that Charles was

still absent. Mr. Ward mentioned that Dr. Allen had telephoned him to say that Charles would

remain at Pawtuxet for some time, and that he must not be disturbed. This was necessary

because Allen himself was suddenly called away for an indefinite period, leaving the

researches in need of Charles‘s constant oversight. Charles sent his best wishes, and

regretted any bother his abrupt change of plans might have caused. In listening to this

message Mr. Ward heard Dr. Allen‘s voice for the first time, and it seemed to excite some

vague and elusive memory which could not be actually placed, but which was disturbing to

the point of fearfulness.

Faced by these baffling and contradictory reports, Dr. Willett was frankly at a loss what to do.

The frantic earnestness of Charles‘s note was not to be denied, yet what could one think of its

writer‘s immediate violation of his own expressed policy? Young Ward had written that his

delvings had become blasphemous and menacing, that they and his bearded colleague must

be extirpated at any cost, and that he himself would never return to their final scene; yet

according to latest advices he had forgotten all this and was back in the thick of the mystery.

Common sense bade one leave the youth alone with his freakishness, yet some deeper

instinct would not permit the impression of that frenzied letter to subside. Willett read it over

again, and could not make its essence sound as empty and insane as both its bombastic

verbiage and its lack of fulfilment would seem to imply. Its terror was too profound and real,

and in conjunction with what the doctor already knew evoked too vivid hints of monstrosities

from beyond time and space to permit of any cynical explanation. There were nameless

horrors abroad; and no matter how little one might be able to get at them, one ought to stand

prepared for any sort of action at any time.

For over a week Dr. Willett pondered on the dilemma which seemed thrust upon him, and

became more and more inclined to pay Charles a call at the Pawtuxet bungalow. No friend of

the youth had ever ventured to storm this forbidden retreat, and even his father knew of its

interior only from such descriptions as he chose to give; but Willett felt that some direct

conversation with his patient was necessary. Mr. Ward had been receiving brief and non-

committal typed notes from his son, and said that Mrs. Ward in her Atlantic City retirement

had had no better word. So at length the doctor resolved to act; and despite a curious

sensation inspired by old legends of Joseph Curwen, and by more recent revelations and

warnings from Charles Ward, set boldly out for the bungalow on the bluff above the river.

Willett had visited the spot before through sheer curiosity, though of course never entering the

house or proclaiming his presence; hence knew exactly the route to take. Driving out Broad

Street one early afternoon toward the end of February in his small motor, he thought oddly of

the grim party which had taken that selfsame road a hundred and fifty-seven years before on

a terrible errand which none might ever comprehend.

The ride through the city‘s decaying fringe was short, and trim Edgewood and sleepy

Pawtuxet presently spread out ahead. Willett turned to the right down Lockwood Street and

drove his car as far along that rural road as he could, then alighted and walked north to where

the bluff towered above the lovely bends of the river and the sweep of misty downlands

beyond. Houses were still few here, and there was no mistaking the isolated bungalow with its

concrete garage on a high point of land at his left. Stepping briskly up the neglected gravel

walk he rapped at the door with a firm hand, and spoke without a tremor to the evil

Portuguese mulatto who opened it to the width of a crack.

He must, he said, see Charles Ward at once on vitally important business. No excuse would

be accepted, and a repulse would mean only a full report of the matter to the elder Ward. The

mulatto still hesitated, and pushed against the door when Willett attempted to open it; but the

doctor merely raised his voice and renewed his demands. Then there came from the dark

interior a husky whisper which somehow chilled the hearer through and through though he did

not know why he feared it. ―Let him in, Tony,‖ it said, ―we may as well talk now as ever.‖ But

disturbing as was the whisper, the greater fear was that which immediately followed. The floor

creaked and the speaker hove in sight—and the owner of those strange and resonant tones

was seen to be no other than Charles Dexter Ward.

The minuteness with which Dr. Willett recalled and recorded his conversation of that

afternoon is due to the importance he assigns to this particular period. For at last he concedes

a vital change in Charles Dexter Ward‘s mentality, and believes that the youth now spoke from

a brain hopelessly alien to the brain whose growth he had watched for six and twenty years.

Controversy with Dr. Lyman has compelled him to be very specific, and he definitely dates the

madness of Charles Ward from the time the typewritten notes began to reach his parents.

Those notes are not in Ward‘s normal style; not even in the style of that last frantic letter to

Willett. Instead, they are strange and archaic, as if the snapping of the writer‘s mind had

released a flood of tendencies and impressions picked up unconsciously through boyhood

antiquarianism. There is an obvious effort to be modern, but the spirit and occasionally the

language are those of the past.

The past, too, was evident in Ward‘s every tone and gesture as he received the doctor in that

shadowy bungalow. He bowed, motioned Willett to a seat, and began to speak abruptly in that

strange whisper which he sought to explain at the very outset.

―I am grown phthisical,‖ he began, ―from this cursed river air. You must excuse my speech. I

suppose you are come from my father to see what ails me, and I hope you will say nothing to

alarm him.‖

Willett was studying these scraping tones with extreme care, but studying even more closely

the face of the speaker. Something, he felt, was wrong; and he thought of what the family had

told him about the fright of that Yorkshire butler one night. He wished it were not so dark, but

did not request that any blind be opened. Instead, he merely asked Ward why he had so

belied the frantic note of little more than a week before.

―I was coming to that,‖ the host replied. ―You must know, I am in a very bad state of nerves,

and do and say queer things I cannot account for. As I have told you often, I am on the edge

of great matters; and the bigness of them has a way of making me light-headed. Any man

might well be frighted of what I have found, but I am not to be put off for long. I was a dunce

to have that guard and stick at home; for having gone this far, my place is here. I am not well

spoke of by my prying neighbours, and perhaps I was led by weakness to believe myself what

they say of me. There is no evil to any in what I do, so long as I do it rightly. Have the

goodness to wait six months, and I‘ll shew you what will pay your patience well.

―You may as well know I have a way of learning old matters from things surer than books, and

I‘ll leave you to judge the importance of what I can give to history, philosophy, and the arts by

reason of the doors I have access to. My ancestor had all this when those witless peeping

Toms came and murdered him. I now have it again, or am coming very imperfectly to have a

part of it. This time nothing must happen, and least of all through any idiot fears of my own.

Pray forget all I writ you, Sir, and have no fear of this place or any in it. Dr. Allen is a man of

fine parts, and I owe him an apology for anything ill I have said of him. I wish I had no need to

spare him, but there were things he had to do elsewhere. His zeal is equal to mine in all those

matters, and I suppose that when I feared the work I feared him too as my greatest helper in

it.‖

Ward paused, and the doctor hardly knew what to say or think. He felt almost foolish in the

face of this calm repudiation of the letter; and yet there clung to him the fact that while the

present discourse was strange and alien and indubitably mad, the note itself had been tragic

in its naturalness and likeness to the Charles Ward he knew. Willett now tried to turn the talk

on early matters, and recall to the youth some past events which would restore a familiar

mood; but in this process he obtained only the most grotesque results. It was the same with

all the alienists later on. Important sections of Charles Ward‘s store of mental images, mainly

those touching modern times and his own personal life, had been unaccountably expunged;

whilst all the massed antiquarianism of his youth had welled up from some profound

subconsciousness to engulf the contemporary and the individual. The youth‘s intimate

knowledge of elder things was abnormal and unholy, and he tried his best to hide it. When

Willett would mention some favourite object of his boyhood archaistic studies he often shed

by pure accident such a light as no normal mortal could conceivably be expected to possess,

and the doctor shuddered as the glib allusion glided by.

It was not wholesome to know so much about the way the fat sheriff‘s wig fell off as he leaned

over at the play in Mr. Douglass‘ Histrionick Academy in King Street on the eleventh of

February, 1762, which fell on a Thursday; or about how the actors cut the text of Steele‘s

Conscious Lovers so badly that one was almost glad the Baptist-ridden legislature closed the

theatre a fortnight later. That Thomas Sabin‘s Boston coach was ―damn‘d uncomfortable‖ old

letters may well have told; but what healthy antiquarian could recall how the creaking of

Epenetus Olney‘s new signboard (the gaudy crown he set up after he took to calling his

tavern the Crown Coffee House) was exactly like the first few notes of the new jazz piece all

the radios in Pawtuxet were playing?

Ward, however, would not be quizzed long in this vein. Modern and personal topics he waved

aside quite summarily, whilst regarding antique affairs he soon shewed the plainest boredom.

What he wished clearly enough was only to satisfy his visitor enough to make him depart

without the intention of returning. To this end he offered to shew Willett the entire house, and

at once proceeded to lead the doctor through every room from cellar to attic. Willett looked

sharply, but noted that the visible books were far too few and trivial ever to have filled the

wide gaps on Ward‘s shelves at home, and that the meagre so-called ―laboratory‖ was the

flimsiest sort of a blind. Clearly there were a library and a laboratory elsewhere; but just

where, it was impossible to say. Essentially defeated in his quest for something he could not

name, Willett returned to town before evening and told the senior Ward everything which had

occurred. They agreed that the youth must be definitely out of his mind, but decided that

nothing drastic need be done just then. Above all, Mrs. Ward must be kept in as complete an

ignorance as her son‘s own strange typed notes would permit.

Mr. Ward now determined to call in person upon his son, making it wholly a surprise visit. Dr.

Willett took him in his car one evening, guiding him to within sight of the bungalow and waiting

patiently for his return. The session was a long one, and the father emerged in a very

saddened and perplexed state. His reception had developed much like Willett‘s, save that

Charles had been an excessively long time in appearing after the visitor had forced his way

into the hall and sent the Portuguese away with an imperative demand; and in the bearing of

the altered son there was no trace of filial affection. The lights had been dim, yet even so the

youth had complained that they dazzled him outrageously. He had not spoken out loud at all,

averring that his throat was in very poor condition; but in his hoarse whisper there was a

quality so vaguely disturbing that Mr. Ward could not banish it from his mind.

Now definitely leagued together to do all they could toward the youth‘s mental salvation, Mr.

Ward and Dr. Willett set about collecting every scrap of data which the case might afford.

Pawtuxet gossip was the first item they studied, and this was relatively easy to glean since

both had friends in that region. Dr. Willett obtained the most rumours because people talked

more frankly to him than to a parent of the central figure, and from all he heard he could tell

that young Ward‘s life had become indeed a strange one. Common tongues would not

dissociate his household from the vampirism of the previous summer, while the nocturnal

comings and goings of the motor trucks provided their share of dark speculation. Local

tradesmen spoke of the queerness of the orders brought them by the evil-looking mulatto, and

in particular of the inordinate amounts of meat and fresh blood secured from the two butcher

shops in the immediate neighbourhood. For a household of only three, these quantities were

quite absurd.

Then there was the matter of the sounds beneath the earth. Reports of these things were

harder to pin down, but all the vague hints tallied in certain basic essentials. Noises of a ritual

nature positively existed, and at times when the bungalow was dark. They might, of course,

have come from the known cellar; but rumour insisted that there were deeper and more

spreading crypts. Recalling the ancient tales of Joseph Curwen‘s catacombs, and assuming

for granted that the present bungalow had been selected because of its situation on the old

Curwen site as revealed in one or another of the documents found behind the picture, Willett

and Mr. Ward gave this phase of the gossip much attention; and searched many times without

success for the door in the river-bank which old manuscripts mentioned. As to popular

opinions of the bungalow‘s various inhabitants, it was soon plain that the Brava Portuguese

was loathed, the bearded and spectacled Dr. Allen feared, and the pallid young scholar

disliked to a profound extent. During the last week or two Ward had obviously changed much,

abandoning his attempts at affability and speaking only in hoarse but oddly repellent whispers

on the few occasions that he ventured forth.

Such were the shreds and fragments gathered here and there; and over these Mr. Ward and

Dr. Willett held many long and serious conferences. They strove to exercise deduction,

induction, and constructive imagination to their utmost extent; and to correlate every known

fact of Charles‘s later life, including the frantic letter which the doctor now shewed the father,

with the meagre documentary evidence available concerning old Joseph Curwen. They would

have given much for a glimpse of the papers Charles had found, for very clearly the key to the

youth‘s madness lay in what he had learned of the ancient wizard and his doings.

And yet, after all, it was from no step of Mr. Ward‘s or Dr. Willett‘s that the next move in this

singular case proceeded. The father and the physician, rebuffed and confused by a shadow

too shapeless and intangible to combat, had rested uneasily on their oars while the typed

notes of young Ward to his parents grew fewer and fewer. Then came the first of the month

with its customary financial adjustments, and the clerks at certain banks began a peculiar

shaking of heads and telephoning from one to the other. Officials who knew Charles Ward by

sight went down to the bungalow to ask why every cheque of his appearing at this juncture

was a clumsy forgery, and were reassurred less than they ought to have been when the youth

hoarsely explained that his hand had lately been so much affected by a nervous shock as to

make normal writing impossible. He could, he said, form no written characters at all except

with great difficulty; and could prove it by the fact that he had been forced to type all his

recent letters, even those to his father and mother, who would bear out the assertion.

What made the investigators pause in confusion was not this circumstance alone, for that was

nothing unprecedented or fundamentally suspicious; nor even the Pawtuxet gossip, of which

one or two of them had caught echoes. It was the muddled discourse of the young man which

nonplussed them, implying as it did a virtually total loss of memory concerning important

monetary matters which he had had at his fingertips only a month or two before. Something

was wrong; for despite the apparent coherence and rationality of his speech, there could be

no normal reason for this ill-concealed blankness on vital points. Moreover, although none of

these men knew Ward well, they could not help observing the change in his language and

manner. They had heard he was an antiquarian, but even the most hopeless antiquarians do

not make daily use of obsolete phraseology and gestures. Altogether, this combination of

hoarseness, palsied hands, bad memory, and altered speech and bearing must represent

some disturbance or malady of genuine gravity, which no doubt formed the basis of the

prevailing odd rumours; and after their departure the party of officials decided that a talk with

the senior Ward was imperative.

So on the sixth of March, 1928, there was a long and serious conference in Mr. Ward‘s office,

after which the utterly bewildered father summoned Dr. Willett in a kind of helpless

resignation. Willett looked over the strained and awkward signatures of the cheques, and

compared them in his mind with the penmanship of that last frantic note. Certainly, the change

was radical and profound, and yet there was something damnably familiar about the new

writing. It had crabbed and archaic tendencies of a very curious sort, and seemed to result

from a type of stroke utterly different from that which the youth had always used. It was

strange—but where had he seen it before? On the whole, it was obvious that Charles was

insane. Of that there could be no doubt. And since it appeared unlikely that he could handle

his property or continue to deal with the outside world much longer, something must quickly

be done toward his oversight and possible cure. It was then that the alienists were called in,

Drs. Peck and Waite of Providence and Dr. Lyman of Boston, to whom Mr. Ward and Dr.

Willett gave the most exhaustive possible history of the case, and who conferred at length in

the now unused library of their young patient, examining what books and papers of his were

left in order to gain some further notion of his habitual mental cast. After scanning this material

and examining the ominous note to Willett they all agreed that Charles Ward‘s studies had

been enough to unseat or at least to warp any ordinary intellect, and wished most heartily that

they could see his more intimate volumes and documents; but this latter they knew they could

do, if at all, only after a scene at the bungalow itself. Willett now reviewed the whole case with

febrile energy; it being at this time that he obtained the statements of the workmen who had

seen Charles find the Curwen documents, and that he collated the incidents of the destroyed

newspaper items, looking up the latter at the Journal office.

On Thursday, the eighth of March, Drs. Willett, Peck, Lyman, and Waite, accompanied by Mr.

Ward, paid the youth their momentous call; making no concealment of their object and

questioning the now acknowledged patient with extreme minuteness. Charles, though he was

inordinately long in answering the summons and was still redolent of strange and noxious

laboratory odours when he did finally make his agitated appearance, proved a far from

recalcitrant subject; and admitted freely that his memory and balance had suffered somewhat

from close application to abstruse studies. He offered no resistance when his removal to other

quarters was insisted upon; and seemed, indeed, to display a high degree of intelligence as

apart from mere memory. His conduct would have sent his interviewers away in bafflement

had not the persistently archaic trend of his speech and unmistakable replacement of modern

by ancient ideas in his consciousness marked him out as one definitely removed from the

normal. Of his work he would say no more to the group of doctors than he had formerly said

to his family and to Dr. Willett, and his frantic note of the previous month he dismissed as

mere nerves and hysteria. He insisted that this shadowy bungalow possessed no library or

laboratory beyond the visible ones, and waxed abstruse in explaining the absence from the

house of such odours as now saturated all his clothing. Neighbourhood gossip he attributed to

nothing more than the cheap inventiveness of baffled curiosity. Of the whereabouts of Dr.

Allen he said he did not feel at liberty to speak definitely, but assured his inquisitors that the

bearded and spectacled man would return when needed. In paying off the stolid Brava who

resisted all questioning by the visitors, and in closing the bungalow which still seemed to hold

such nighted secrets, Ward shewed no sign of nervousness save a barely noticed tendency to

pause as though listening for something very faint. He was apparently animated by a calmly

philosophic resignation, as if his removal were the merest transient incident which would

cause the least trouble if facilitated and disposed of once and for all. It was clear that he

trusted to his obviously unimpaired keenness of absolute mentality to overcome all the

embarrassments into which his twisted memory, his lost voice and handwriting, and his

secretive and eccentric behaviour had led him. His mother, it was agreed, was not to be told

of the change; his father supplying typed notes in his name. Ward was taken to the restfully

and picturesquely situated private hospital maintained by Dr. Waite on Conanicut Island in the

bay, and subjected to the closest scrutiny and questioning by all the physicians connected

with the case. It was then that the physical oddities were noticed; the slackened metabolism,

the altered skin, and the disproportionate neural reactions. Dr. Willett was the most perturbed

of the various examiners, for he had attended Ward all his life and could appreciate with

terrible keenness the extent of his physical disorganisation. Even the familiar olive mark on

his hip was gone, while on his chest was a great black mole or cicatrice which had never

been there before, and which made Willett wonder whether the youth had ever submitted to

any of the ―witch markings‖ reputed to be inflicted at certain unwholesome nocturnal meetings

in wild and lonely places. The doctor could not keep his mind off a certain transcribed witch-

trial record from Salem which Charles had shewn him in the old non-secretive days, and

which read: ―Mr. G. B. on that Nighte putt ye Divell his Marke upon Bridget S., Jonathan A.,

Simon O., Deliverance W., Joseph C., Susan P., Mehitable C., and Deborah B.‖ Ward‘s face,

too, troubled him horribly, till at length he suddenly discovered why he was horrified. For

above the young man‘s right eye was something which he had never previously noticed—a

small scar or pit precisely like that in the crumbled painting of old Joseph Curwen, and

perhaps attesting some hideous ritualistic inoculation to which both had submitted at a certain

stage of their occult careers.

While Ward himself was puzzling all the doctors at the hospital a very strict watch was kept on

all mail addressed either to him or to Dr. Allen, which Mr. Ward had ordered delivered at the

family home. Willett had predicted that very little would be found, since any communications

of a vital nature would probably have been exchanged by messenger; but in the latter part of

March there did come a letter from Prague for Dr. Allen which gave both the doctor and the

father deep thought. It was in a very crabbed and archaic hand; and though clearly not the

effort of a foreigner, shewed almost as singular a departure from modern English as the

speech of young Ward himself. It read:

Kleinstrasse 11,

Altstadt, Prague,

11th Feby. 1928.

Brother in Almousin-Metraton:—

I this day receiv‘d yr mention of what came up from the Salts I sent you. It was

wrong, and meanes clearly that ye Headstones had been chang‘d when Barnabas

gott me the Specimen. It is often so, as you must be sensible of from the Thing you

gott from ye Kings Chapell ground in 1769 and what H. gott from Olde Bury‘g Point

in 1690, that was like to ende him. I gott such a Thing in Aegypt 75 yeares gone,

from the which came that Scar ye Boy saw on me here in 1924. As I told you longe

ago, do not calle up That which you can not put downe; either from dead Saltes or

out of ye Spheres beyond. Have ye Wordes for laying at all times readie, and stopp

not to be sure when there is any Doubte of Whom you have. Stones are all chang‘d

now in Nine groundes out of 10. You are never sure till you question. I this day

heard from H., who has had Trouble with the Soldiers. He is like to be sorry

Transylvania is pass‘d from Hungary to Roumania, and wou‘d change his Seat if

the Castel weren‘t so fulle of What we Knowe. But of this he hath doubtless writ

you. In my next Send‘g there will be Somewhat from a Hill tomb from ye East that

will delight you greatly. Meanwhile forget not I am desirous of B. F. if you can

possibly get him for me. You know G. in Philada. better than I. Have him up firste if

you will, but doe not use him soe hard he will be Difficult, for I must speake to him

in ye End.

Yogg-Sothoth Neblod Zin

Simon O.

To Mr. J. C. in

Providence.

Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett paused in utter chaos before this apparent bit of unrelieved insanity.

Only by degrees did they absorb what it seemed to imply. So the absent Dr. Allen, and not

Charles Ward, had come to be the leading spirit at Pawtuxet? That must explain the wild

reference and denunciation in the youth‘s last frantic letter. And what of this addressing of the

bearded and spectacled stranger as ―Mr. J. C.‖? There was no escaping the inference, but

there are limits to possible monstrosity. Who was ―Simon O.‖; the old man Ward had visited in

Prague four years previously? Perhaps, but in the centuries behind there had been another

Simon O.—Simon Orne, alias Jedediah, of Salem, who vanished in 1771, and whose peculiar

handwriting Dr. Willett now unmistakably recognised from the photostatic copies of the Orne

formulae which Charles had once shewn him. What horrors and mysteries, what

contradictions and contraventions of Nature, had come back after a century and a half to

harass Old Providence with her clustered spires and domes?

The father and the old physician, virtually at a loss what to do or think, went to see Charles at

the hospital and questioned him as delicately as they could about Dr. Allen, about the Prague

visit, and about what he had learned of Simon or Jedediah Orne of Salem. To all these

inquiries the youth was politely non-committal, merely barking in his hoarse whisper that he

had found Dr. Allen to have a remarkable spiritual rapport with certain souls from the past, and

that any correspondent the bearded man might have in Prague would probably be similarly

gifted. When they left, Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett realised to their chagrin that they had really

been the ones under catechism; and that without imparting anything vital himself, the confined

youth had adroitly pumped them of everything the Prague letter had contained.

Drs. Peck, Waite, and Lyman were not inclined to attach much importance to the strange

correspondence of young Ward‘s companion; for they knew the tendency of kindred

eccentrics and monomaniacs to band together, and believed that Charles or Allen had merely

unearthed an expatriated counterpart—perhaps one who had seen Orne‘s handwriting and

copied it in an attempt to pose as the bygone character‘s reincarnation. Allen himself was

perhaps a similar case, and may have persuaded the youth into accepting him as an avatar of

the long-dead Curwen. Such things had been known before, and on the same basis the hard-

headed doctors disposed of Willett‘s growing disquiet about Charles Ward‘s present

handwriting, as studied from unpremeditated specimens obtained by various ruses. Willett

thought he had placed its odd familiarity at last, and that what it vaguely resembled was the

bygone penmanship of old Joseph Curwen himself; but this the other physicians regarded as

a phase of imitativeness only to be expected in a mania of this sort, and refused to grant it

any importance either favourable or unfavourable. Recognising this prosaic attitude in his

colleagues, Willett advised Mr. Ward to keep to himself the letter which arrived for Dr. Allen on

the second of April from Rakus, Transylvania, in a handwriting so intensely and fundamentally

like that of the Hutchinson cipher that both father and physician paused in awe before

breaking the seal. This read as follows:

Castle Ferenczy

7 March 1928.

Dear C.:—Hadd a Squad of 20 Militia up to talk about what the Country Folk say.

Must digg deeper and have less Hearde. These Roumanians plague me damnably,

being officious and particular where you cou‘d buy a Magyar off with a Drinke and

ffood. Last monthe M. got me ye Sarcophagus of ye Five Sphinxes from ye

Acropolis where He whome I call‘d up say‘d it wou‘d be, and I have hadde 3 Talkes

with What was therein inhum’d. It will go to S. O. in Prague directly, and thence to

you. It is stubborn but you know ye Way with Such. You shew Wisdom in having

lesse about than Before; for there was no Neede to keep the Guards in Shape and

eat‘g off their Heads, and it made Much to be founde in Case of Trouble, as you

too welle knowe. You can now move and worke elsewhere with no Kill‘g Trouble if

needful, tho‘ I hope no Thing will soon force you to so Bothersome a Course. I

rejoice that you traffick not so much with Those Outside; for there was ever a

Mortall Peril in it, and you are sensible what it did when you ask‘d Protection of

One not dispos‘d to give it. You excel me in gett‘g ye fformulae so another may

saye them with Success, but Borellus fancy‘d it wou‘d be so if just ye right Wordes

were hadd. Does ye Boy use ‘em often? I regret that he growes squeamish, as I

fear‘d he wou‘d when I hadde him here nigh 15 Monthes, but am sensible you

knowe how to deal with him. You can‘t saye him down with ye fformula, for that will

Worke only upon such as ye other fformula hath call‘d up from Saltes; but you still

have strong Handes and Knife and Pistol, and Graves are not harde to digg, nor

Acids loth to burne. O. sayes you have promis‘d him B. F. I must have him after. B.

goes to you soone, and may he give you what you wishe of that Darke Thing

belowe Memphis. Imploy care in what you calle up, and beware of ye Boy. It will be

ripe in a yeare‘s time to have up ye Legions from Underneath, and then there are

no Boundes to what shal be oures. Have Confidence in what I saye, for you knowe

O. and I have hadd these 150 yeares more than you to consulte these Matters in.

Nephren-Ka nai Hadoth

Edw: H.

For J. Curwen, Esq.

Providence.

But if Willett and Mr. Ward refrained from shewing this letter to the alienists, they did not

refrain from acting upon it themselves. No amount of learned sophistry could controvert the

fact that the strangely bearded and spectacled Dr. Allen, of whom Charles‘s frantic letter had

spoken as such a monstrous menace, was in close and sinister correspondence with two

inexplicable creatures whom Ward had visited in his travels and who plainly claimed to be

survivals or avatars of Curwen‘s old Salem colleagues; that he was regarding himself as the

reincarnation of Joseph Curwen, and that he entertained—or was at least advised to

entertain—murderous designs against a ―boy‖ who could scarcely be other than Charles

Ward. There was organised horror afoot; and no matter who had started it, the missing Allen

was by this time at the bottom of it. Therefore, thanking heaven that Charles was now safe in

the hospital, Mr. Ward lost no time in engaging detectives to learn all they could of the cryptic

bearded doctor; finding whence he had come and what Pawtuxet knew of him, and if possible

discovering his current whereabouts. Supplying the men with one of the bungalow keys which

Charles yielded up, he urged them to explore Allen‘s vacant room which had been identified

when the patient‘s belongings had been packed; obtaining what clues they could from any

effects he might have left about. Mr. Ward talked with the detectives in his son‘s old library,

and they felt a marked relief when they left it at last; for there seemed to hover about the

place a vague aura of evil. Perhaps it was what they had heard of the infamous old wizard

whose picture had once stared from the panelled overmantel, and perhaps it was something

different and irrelevant; but in any case they all half sensed an intangible miasma which

centred in that carven vestige of an older dwelling and which at times almost rose to the

intensity of a material emanation.

V. A Nightmare and a Cataclysm

And now swiftly followed that hideous experience which has left its indelible mark of fear on

the soul of Marinus Bicknell Willett, and has added a decade to the visible age of one whose

youth was even then far behind. Dr. Willett had conferred at length with Mr. Ward, and had

come to an agreement with him on several points which both felt the alienists would ridicule.

There was, they conceded, a terrible movement alive in the world, whose direct connexion

with a necromancy even older than the Salem witchcraft could not be doubted. That at least

two living men—and one other of whom they dared not think—were in absolute possession of

minds or personalities which had functioned as early as 1690 or before was likewise almost

unassailably proved even in the face of all known natural laws. What these horrible

creatures—and Charles Ward as well—were doing or trying to do seemed fairly clear from

their letters and from every bit of light both old and new which had filtered in upon the case.

They were robbing the tombs of all the ages, including those of the world‘s wisest and

greatest men, in the hope of recovering from the bygone ashes some vestige of the

consciousness and lore which had once animated and informed them.

A hideous traffick was going on among these nightmare ghouls, whereby illustrious bones

were bartered with the calm calculativeness of schoolboys swapping books; and from what

was extorted from this centuried dust there was anticipated a power and a wisdom beyond

anything which the cosmos had ever seen concentrated in one man or group. They had found

unholy ways to keep their brains alive, either in the same body or different bodies; and had

evidently achieved a way of tapping the consciousness of the dead whom they gathered

together. There had, it seems, been some truth in chimerical old Borellus when he wrote of

preparing from even the most antique remains certain ―Essential Saltes‖ from which the shade

of a long-dead living thing might be raised up. There was a formula for evoking such a shade,

and another for putting it down; and it had now been so perfected that it could be taught

successfully. One must be careful about evocations, for the markers of old graves are not

always accurate.

Willett and Mr. Ward shivered as they passed from conclusion to conclusion. Things—

presences or voices of some sort—could be drawn down from unknown places as well as

from the grave, and in this process also one must be careful. Joseph Curwen had indubitably

evoked many forbidden things, and as for Charles—what might one think of him? What forces

―outside the spheres‖ had reached him from Joseph Curwen‘s day and turned his mind on

forgotten things? He had been led to find certain directions, and he had used them. He had

talked with the man of horror in Prague and stayed long with the creature in the mountains of

Transylvania. And he must have found the grave of Joseph Curwen at last. That newspaper

item and what his mother had heard in the night were too significant to overlook. Then he had

summoned something, and it must have come. That mighty voice aloft on Good Friday, and

those different tones in the locked attic laboratory. What were they like, with their depth and

hollowness? Was there not here some awful foreshadowing of the dreaded stranger Dr. Allen

with his spectral bass? Yes, that was what Mr. Ward had felt with vague horror in his single

talk with the man—if man it were—over the telephone!

What hellish consciousness or voice, what morbid shade or presence, had come to answer

Charles Ward‘s secret rites behind that locked door? Those voices heard in argument—―must

have it red for three months‖—Good God! Was not that just before the vampirism broke out?

The rifling of Ezra Weeden‘s ancient grave, and the cries later at Pawtuxet—whose mind had

planned the vengeance and rediscovered the shunned seat of elder blasphemies? And then

the bungalow and the bearded stranger, and the gossip, and the fear. The final madness of

Charles neither father nor doctor could attempt to explain, but they did feel sure that the mind

of Joseph Curwen had come to earth again and was following its ancient morbidities. Was

daemoniac possession in truth a possibility? Allen had something to do with it, and the

detectives must find out more about one whose existence menaced the young man‘s life. In

the meantime, since the existence of some vast crypt beneath the bungalow seemed virtually

beyond dispute, some effort must be made to find it. Willett and Mr. Ward, conscious of the

sceptical attitude of the alienists, resolved during their final conference to undertake a joint

secret exploration of unparalleled thoroughness; and agreed to meet at the bungalow on the

following morning with valises and with certain tools and accessories suited to architectural

search and underground exploration.

The morning of April 6th dawned clear, and both explorers were at the bungalow by ten

o‘clock. Mr. Ward had the key, and an entry and cursory survey were made. From the

disordered condition of Dr. Allen‘s room it was obvious that the detectives had been there

before, and the later searchers hoped that they had found some clue which might prove of

value. Of course the main business lay in the cellar; so thither they descended without much

delay, again making the circuit which each had vainly made before in the presence of the mad

young owner. For a time everything seemed baffling, each inch of the earthen floor and stone

walls having so solid and innocuous an aspect that the thought of a yawning aperture was

scarcely to be entertained. Willett reflected that since the original cellar was dug without

knowledge of any catacombs beneath, the beginning of the passage would represent the

strictly modern delving of young Ward and his associates, where they had probed for the

ancient vaults whose rumour could have reached them by no wholesome means.

The doctor tried to put himself in Charles‘s place to see how a delver would be likely to start,

but could not gain much inspiration from this method. Then he decided on elimination as a

policy, and went carefully over the whole subterranean surface both vertical and horizontal,

trying to account for every inch separately. He was soon substantially narrowed down, and at

last had nothing left but the small platform before the washtubs, which he had tried once

before in vain. Now experimenting in every possible way, and exerting a double strength, he

finally found that the top did indeed turn and slide horizontally on a corner pivot. Beneath it lay

a trim concrete surface with an iron manhole, to which Mr. Ward at once rushed with excited

zeal. The cover was not hard to lift, and the father had quite removed it when Willett noticed

the queerness of his aspect. He was swaying and nodding dizzily, and in the gust of noxious

air which swept up from the black pit beneath the doctor soon recognised ample cause.

In a moment Dr. Willett had his fainting companion on the floor above and was reviving him

with cold water. Mr. Ward responded feebly, but it could be seen that the mephitic blast from

the crypt had in some way gravely sickened him. Wishing to take no chances, Willett

hastened out to Broad Street for a taxicab and had soon dispatched the sufferer home despite

his weak-voiced protests; after which he produced an electric torch, covered his nostrils with a

band of sterile gauze, and descended once more to peer into the new-found depths. The foul

air had now slightly abated, and Willett was able to send a beam of light down the Stygian

hole. For about ten feet, he saw, it was a sheer cylindrical drop with concrete walls and an

iron ladder; after which the hole appeared to strike a flight of old stone steps which must

originally have emerged to earth somewhat southwest of the present building.

Willett freely admits that for a moment the memory of the old Curwen legends kept him from

climbing down alone into that malodorous gulf. He could not help thinking of what Luke

Fenner had reported on that last monstrous night. Then duty asserted itself and he made the

plunge, carrying a great valise for the removal of whatever papers might prove of supreme

importance. Slowly, as befitted one of his years, he descended the ladder and reached the

slimy steps below. This was ancient masonry, his torch told him; and upon the dripping walls

he saw the unwholesome moss of centuries. Down, down, ran the steps; not spirally, but in

three abrupt turns; and with such narrowness that two men could have passed only with

difficulty. He had counted about thirty when a sound reached him very faintly; and after that he

did not feel disposed to count any more.

It was a godless sound; one of those low-keyed, insidious outrages of Nature which are not

meant to be. To call it a dull wail, a doom-dragged whine, or a hopeless howl of chorused

anguish and stricken flesh without mind would be to miss its most quintessential

loathsomeness and soul-sickening overtones. Was it for this that Ward had seemed to listen

on that day he was removed? It was the most shocking thing that Willett had ever heard, and

it continued from no determinate point as the doctor reached the bottom of the steps and cast

his torchlight around on lofty corridor walls surmounted by Cyclopean vaulting and pierced by

numberless black archways. The hall in which he stood was perhaps fourteen feet high to the

middle of the vaulting and ten or twelve feet broad. Its pavement was of large chipped

flagstones, and its walls and roof were of dressed masonry. Its length he could not imagine,

for it stretched ahead indefinitely into the blackness. Of the archways, some had doors of the

old six-panelled colonial type, whilst others had none.

Overcoming the dread induced by the smell and the howling, Willett began to explore these

archways one by one; finding beyond them rooms with groined stone ceilings, each of

medium size and apparently of bizarre uses. Most of them had fireplaces, the upper courses

of whose chimneys would have formed an interesting study in engineering. Never before or

since had he seen such instruments or suggestions of instruments as here loomed up on

every hand through the burying dust and cobwebs of a century and a half, in many cases

evidently shattered as if by the ancient raiders. For many of the chambers seemed wholly

untrodden by modern feet, and must have represented the earliest and most obsolete phases

of Joseph Curwen‘s experimentation. Finally there came a room of obvious modernity, or at

least of recent occupancy. There were oil heaters, bookshelves and tables, chairs and

cabinets, and a desk piled high with papers of varying antiquity and contemporaneousness.

Candlesticks and oil lamps stood about in several places; and finding a match-safe handy,

Willett lighted such as were ready for use.

In the fuller gleam it appeared that this apartment was nothing less than the latest study or

library of Charles Ward. Of the books the doctor had seen many before, and a good part of

the furniture had plainly come from the Prospect Street mansion. Here and there was a piece

well known to Willett, and the sense of familiarity became so great that he half forgot the

noisomeness and the wailing, both of which were plainer here than they had been at the foot

of the steps. His first duty, as planned long ahead, was to find and seize any papers which

might seem of vital importance; especially those portentous documents found by Charles so

long ago behind the picture in Olney Court. As he searched he perceived how stupendous a

task the final unravelling would be; for file on file was stuffed with papers in curious hands and

bearing curious designs, so that months or even years might be needed for a thorough

deciphering and editing. Once he found large packets of letters with Prague and Rakus

postmarks, and in writing clearly recognisable as Orne‘s and Hutchinson‘s; all of which he

took with him as part of the bundle to be removed in his valise.

At last, in a locked mahogany cabinet once gracing the Ward home, Willett found the batch of

old Curwen papers; recognising them from the reluctant glimpse Charles had granted him so

many years ago. The youth had evidently kept them together very much as they had been

when first he found them, since all the titles recalled by the workmen were present except the

papers addressed to Orne and Hutchinson, and the cipher with its key. Willett placed the

entire lot in his valise and continued his examination of the files. Since young Ward‘s

immediate condition was the greatest matter at stake, the closest searching was done among

the most obviously recent matter; and in this abundance of contemporary manuscript one

very baffling oddity was noted. The oddity was the slight amount in Charles‘s normal writing,

which indeed included nothing more recent than two months before. On the other hand, there

were literally reams of symbols and formulae, historical notes and philosophical comment, in

a crabbed penmanship absolutely identical with the ancient script of Joseph Curwen, though

of undeniably modern dating. Plainly, a part of the latter-day programme had been a sedulous

imitation of the old wizard‘s writing, which Charles seemed to have carried to a marvellous

state of perfection. Of any third hand which might have been Allen‘s there was not a trace. If

he had indeed come to be the leader, he must have forced young Ward to act as his

amanuensis.

In this new material one mystic formula, or rather pair of formulae, recurred so often that

Willett had it by heart before he had half finished his quest. It consisted of two parallel

columns, the left-hand one surmounted by the archaic symbol called ―Dragon‘s Head‖ and

used in almanacks to indicate the ascending node, and the right-hand one headed by a

corresponding sign of ―Dragon‘s Tail‖ or descending node. The appearance of the whole was

something like this, and almost unconsciously the doctor realised that the second half was no

more than the first written syllabically backward with the exception of the final monosyllables

and of the odd name Yog-Sothoth, which he had come to recognise under various spellings

from other things he had seen in connexion with this horrible matter. The formulae were as

follows—exactly so, as Willett is abundantly able to testify—and the first one struck an odd

note of uncomfortable latent memory in his brain, which he recognised later when reviewing

the events of that horrible Good Friday of the previous year.

Y‘AI ‘NG‘NGAH,

YOG-SOTHOTH

H‘EE—L‘GEB

F‘AI THRODOG

UAAAH

OGTHROD AI‘F

GEB‘L—EE‘H

YOG-SOTHOTH

‘NGAH‘NG AI‘Y

ZHRO

So haunting were these formulae, and so frequently did he come upon them, that before the

doctor knew it he was repeating them under his breath. Eventually, however, he felt he had

secured all the papers he could digest to advantage for the present; hence resolved to

examine no more till he could bring the sceptical alienists en masse for an ampler and more

systematic raid. He had still to find the hidden laboratory, so leaving his valise in the lighted

room he emerged again into the black noisome corridor whose vaulting echoed ceaselessly

with that dull and hideous whine.

The next few rooms he tried were all abandoned, or filled only with crumbling boxes and

ominous-looking leaden coffins; but impressed him deeply with the magnitude of Joseph

Curwen‘s original operations. He thought of the slaves and seamen who had disappeared, of

the graves which had been violated in every part of the world, and of what that final raiding

party must have seen; and then he decided it was better not to think any more. Once a great

stone staircase mounted at his right, and he deduced that this must have reached to one of

the Curwen outbuildings—perhaps the famous stone edifice with the high slit-like windows—

provided the steps he had descended had led from the steep-roofed farmhouse. Suddenly the

walls seemed to fall away ahead, and the stench and the wailing grew stronger. Willett saw

that he had come upon a vast open space, so great that his torchlight would not carry across

it; and as he advanced he encountered occasional stout pillars supporting the arches of the

roof.

After a time he reached a circle of pillars grouped like the monoliths of Stonehenge, with a

large carved altar on a base of three steps in the centre; and so curious were the carvings on

that altar that he approached to study them with his electric light. But when he saw what they

were he shrank away shuddering, and did not stop to investigate the dark stains which

discoloured the upper surface and had spread down the sides in occasional thin lines.

Instead, he found the distant wall and traced it as it swept round in a gigantic circle perforated

by occasional black doorways and indented by a myriad of shallow cells with iron gratings and

wrist and ankle bonds on chains fastened to the stone of the concave rear masonry. These

cells were empty, but still the horrible odour and the dismal moaning continued, more insistent

now than ever, and seemingly varied at times by a sort of slippery thumping.

From that frightful smell and that uncanny noise Willett‘s attention could no longer be diverted.

Both were plainer and more hideous in the great pillared hall than anywhere else, and carried

a vague impression of being far below, even in this dark nether world of subterrene mystery.

Before trying any of the black archways for steps leading further down, the doctor cast his

beam of light about the stone-flagged floor. It was very loosely paved, and at irregular

intervals there would occur a slab curiously pierced by small holes in no definite arrangement,

while at one point there lay a very long ladder carelessly flung down. To this ladder, singularly

enough, appeared to cling a particularly large amount of the frightful odour which

encompassed everything. As he walked slowly about it suddenly occurred to Willett that both

the noise and the odour seemed strongest directly above the oddly pierced slabs, as if they

might be crude trap-doors leading down to some still deeper region of horror. Kneeling by

one, he worked at it with his hands, and found that with extreme difficulty he could budge it. At

his touch the moaning beneath ascended to a louder key, and only with vast trepidation did he

persevere in the lifting of the heavy stone. A stench unnamable now rose up from below, and

the doctor‘s head reeled dizzily as he laid back the slab and turned his torch upon the

exposed square yard of gaping blackness.

If he had expected a flight of steps to some wide gulf of ultimate abomination, Willett was

destined to be disappointed; for amidst that foetor and cracked whining he discerned only the

brick-faced top of a cylindrical well perhaps a yard and a half in diameter and devoid of any

ladder or other means of descent. As the light shone down, the wailing changed suddenly to a

series of horrible yelps; in conjunction with which there came again that sound of blind, futile

scrambling and slippery thumping. The explorer trembled, unwilling even to imagine what

noxious thing might be lurking in that abyss, but in a moment mustered up the courage to

peer over the rough-hewn brink; lying at full length and holding the torch downward at arm‘s

length to see what might lie below. For a second he could distinguish nothing but the slimy,

moss-grown brick walls sinking illimitably into that half-tangible miasma of murk and foulness

and anguished frenzy; and then he saw that something dark was leaping clumsily and

frantically up and down at the bottom of the narrow shaft, which must have been from twenty

to twenty-five feet below the stone floor where he lay. The torch shook in his hand, but he

looked again to see what manner of living creature might be immured there in the darkness of

that unnatural well; left starving by young Ward through all the long month since the doctors

had taken him away, and clearly only one of a vast number prisoned in the kindred wells

whose pierced stone covers so thickly studded in the floor of the great vaulted cavern.

Whatever the things were, they could not lie down in their cramped spaces; but must have

crouched and whined and waited and feebly leaped all those hideous weeks since their

master had abandoned them unheeded.

But Marinus Bicknell Willett was sorry that he looked again; for surgeon and veteran of the

dissecting-room though he was, he has not been the same since. It is hard to explain just how

a single sight of a tangible object with measureable dimensions could so shake and change a

man; and we may only say that there is about certain outlines and entities a power of

symbolism and suggestion which acts frightfully on a sensitive thinker‘s perspective and

whispers terrible hints of obscure cosmic relationships and unnamable realities behind the

protective illusions of common vision. In that second look Willett saw such an outline or entity,

for during the next few instants he was undoubtedly as stark mad as any inmate of Dr. Waite‘s

private hospital. He dropped the electric torch from a hand drained of muscular power or

nervous coördination, nor heeded the sound of crunching teeth which told of its fate at the

bottom of the pit. He screamed and screamed and screamed in a voice whose falsetto panic

no acquaintance of his would ever have recognised; and though he could not rise to his feet

he crawled and rolled desperately away over the damp pavement where dozens of Tartarean

wells poured forth their exhausted whining and yelping to answer his own insane cries. He

tore his hands on the rough, loose stones, and many times bruised his head against the

frequent pillars, but still he kept on. Then at last he slowly came to himself in the utter

blackness and stench, and stopped his ears against the droning wail into which the burst of

yelping had subsided. He was drenched with perspiration and without means of producing a

light; stricken and unnerved in the abysmal blackness and horror, and crushed with a memory

he never could efface. Beneath him dozens of those things still lived, and from one of the

shafts the cover was removed. He knew that what he had seen could never climb up the

slippery walls, yet shuddered at the thought that some obscure foot-hold might exist.

What the thing was, he would never tell. It was like some of the carvings on the hellish altar,

but it was alive. Nature had never made it in this form, for it was too palpably unfinished. The

deficiencies were of the most surprising sort, and the abnormalities of proportion could not be

described. Willett consents only to say that this type of thing must have represented entities

which Ward called up from imperfect salts, and which he kept for servile or ritualistic

purposes. If it had not had a certain significance, its image would not have been carved on

that damnable stone. It was not the worst thing depicted on that stone—but Willett never

opened the other pits. At the time, the first connected idea in his mind was an idle paragraph

from some of the old Curwen data he had digested long before; a phrase used by Simon or

Jedediah Orne in that portentous confiscated letter to the bygone sorcerer: ―Certainely, there

was Noth‘g butt ye liveliest Awfulness in that which H. rais‘d upp from What he cou‘d gather

onlie a part of.‖

Then, horribly supplementing rather than displacing this image, there came a recollection of

those ancient lingering rumours anent the burned, twisted thing found in the fields a week

after the Curwen raid. Charles Ward had once told the doctor what old Slocum said of that

object; that it was neither thoroughly human, nor wholly allied to any animal which Pawtuxet

folk had ever seen or read about.

These words hummed in the doctor‘s mind as he rocked to and fro, squatting on the nitrous

stone floor. He tried to drive them out, and repeated the Lord‘s Prayer to himself; eventually

trailing off into a mnemonic hodge-podge like the modernistic Waste Land of Mr. T. S. Eliot

and finally reverting to the oft-repeated dual formula he had lately found in Ward‘s

underground library: ―Y’ai ’ng’ngah, Yog-Sothoth”, and so on till the final underlined ―Zhro”. It

seemed to soothe him, and he staggered to his feet after a time; lamenting bitterly his fright-

lost torch and looking wildly about for any gleam of light in the clutching inkiness of the chilly

air. Think he would not; but he strained his eyes in every direction for some faint glint or

reflection of the bright illumination he had left in the library. After a while he thought he

detected a suspicion of a glow infinitely far away, and toward this he crawled in agonised

caution on hands and knees amidst the stench and howling, always feeling ahead lest he

collide with the numerous great pillars or stumble into the abominable pit he had uncovered.

Once his shaking fingers touched something which he knew must be the steps leading to the

hellish altar, and from this spot he recoiled in loathing. At another time he encountered the

pierced slab he had removed, and here his caution became almost pitiful. But he did not

come upon the dread aperture after all, nor did anything issue from that aperture to detain

him. What had been down there made no sound nor stir. Evidently its crunching of the fallen

electric torch had not been good for it. Each time Willett‘s fingers felt a perforated slab he

trembled. His passage over it would sometimes increase the groaning below, but generally it

would produce no effect at all, since he moved very noiselessly. Several times during his

progress the glow ahead diminished perceptibly, and he realised that the various candles and

lamps he had left must be expiring one by one. The thought of being lost in utter darkness

without matches amidst this underground world of nightmare labyrinths impelled him to rise to

his feet and run, which he could safely do now that he had passed the open pit; for he knew

that once the light failed, his only hope of rescue and survival would lie in whatever relief party

Mr. Ward might send after missing him for a sufficient period. Presently, however, he emerged

from the open space into the narrower corridor and definitely located the glow as coming from

a door on his right. In a moment he had reached it and was standing once more in young

Ward‘s secret library, trembling with relief, and watching the sputterings of that last lamp

which had brought him to safety.

In another moment he was hastily filling the burned-out lamps from an oil supply he had

previously noticed, and when the room was bright again he looked about to see if he might

find a lantern for further exploration. For racked though he was with horror, his sense of grim

purpose was still uppermost; and he was firmly determined to leave no stone unturned in his

search for the hideous facts behind Charles Ward‘s bizarre madness. Failing to find a lantern,

he chose the smallest of the lamps to carry; also filling his pockets with candles and matches,

and taking with him a gallon can of oil, which he proposed to keep for reserve use in whatever

hidden laboratory he might uncover beyond the terrible open space with its unclean altar and

nameless covered wells. To traverse that space again would require his utmost fortitude, but

he knew it must be done. Fortunately neither the frightful altar nor the opened shaft was near

the vast cell-indented wall which bounded the cavern area, and whose black mysterious

archways would form the next goals of a logical search.

So Willett went back to that great pillared hall of stench and anguished howling; turning down

his lamp to avoid any distant glimpse of the hellish altar, or of the uncovered pit with the

pierced stone slab beside it. Most of the black doorways led merely to small chambers, some

vacant and some evidently used as storerooms; and in several of the latter he saw some very

curious accumulations of various objects. One was packed with rotting and dust-draped bales

of spare clothing, and the explorer thrilled when he saw that it was unmistakably the clothing

of a century and a half before. In another room he found numerous odds and ends of modern

clothing, as if gradual provisions were being made to equip a large body of men. But what he

disliked most of all were the huge copper vats which occasionally appeared; these, and the

sinister incrustations upon them. He liked them even less than the weirdly figured leaden

bowls whose rims retained such obnoxious deposits and around which clung repellent odours

perceptible above even the general noisomeness of the crypt. When he had completed about

half the entire circuit of the wall he found another corridor like that from which he had come,

and out of which many doors opened. This he proceeded to investigate; and after entering

three rooms of medium size and of no significant contents, he came at last to a large oblong

apartment whose business-like tanks and tables, furnaces and modern instruments,

occasional books and endless shelves of jars and bottles proclaimed it indeed the long-

sought laboratory of Charles Ward—and no doubt of old Joseph Curwen before him.

After lighting the three lamps which he found filled and ready, Dr. Willett examined the place

and all its appurtenances with the keenest interest; noting from the relative quantities of

various reagents on the shelves that young Ward‘s dominant concern must have been with

some branch of organic chemistry. On the whole, little could be learned from the scientific

ensemble, which included a gruesome-looking dissecting table; so that the room was really

rather a disappointment. Among the books was a tattered old copy of Borellus in black-letter,

and it was weirdly interesting to note that Ward had underlined the same passage whose

marking had so perturbed good Mr. Merritt at Curwen‘s farmhouse more than a century and a

half before. That older copy, of course, must have perished along with the rest of Curwen‘s

occult library in the final raid. Three archways opened off the laboratory, and these the doctor

proceeded to sample in turn. From his cursory survey he saw that two led merely to small

storerooms; but these he canvassed with care, remarking the piles of coffins in various stages

of damage and shuddering violently at two or three of the few coffin-plates he could decipher.

There was much clothing also stored in these rooms, and several new and tightly nailed

boxes which he did not stop to investigate. Most interesting of all, perhaps, were some odd

bits which he judged to be fragments of old Joseph Curwen‘s laboratory appliances. These

had suffered damage at the hands of the raiders, but were still partly recognisable as the

chemical paraphernalia of the Georgian period.

The third archway led to a very sizeable chamber entirely lined with shelves and having in the

centre a table bearing two lamps. These lamps Willett lighted, and in their brilliant glow

studied the endless shelving which surrounded him. Some of the upper levels were wholly

vacant, but most of the space was filled with small odd-looking leaden jars of two general

types; one tall and without handles like a Grecian lekythos or oil-jug, and the other with a

single handle and proportioned like a Phaleron jug. All had metal stoppers, and were covered

with peculiar-looking symbols moulded in low relief. In a moment the doctor noticed that these

jugs were classified with great rigidity; all the lekythoi being on one side of the room with a

large wooden sign reading ―Custodes‖ above them, and all the Phalerons on the other,

correspondingly labelled with a sign reading ―Materia‖. Each of the jars or jugs, except some

on the upper shelves that turned out to be vacant, bore a cardboard tag with a number

apparently referring to a catalogue; and Willett resolved to look for the latter presently. For the

moment, however, he was more interested in the nature of the array as a whole; and

experimentally opened several of the lekythoi and Phalerons at random with a view to a rough

generalisation. The result was invariable. Both types of jar contained a small quantity of a

single kind of substance; a fine dusty powder of very light weight and of many shades of dull,

neutral colour. To the colours which formed the only point of variation there was no apparent

method of disposal; and no distinction between what occurred in the lekythoi and what

occurred in the Phalerons. A bluish-grey powder might be by the side of a pinkish-white one,

and any one in a Phaleron might have its exact counterpart in a lekythos. The most individual

feature about the powders was their non-adhesiveness. Willett would pour one into his hand,

and upon returning it to its jug would find that no residue whatever remained on its palm.

The meaning of the two signs puzzled him, and he wondered why this battery of chemicals

was separated so radically from those in glass jars on the shelves of the laboratory proper.

―Custodes‖, ―Materia‖; that was the Latin for ―Guards‖ and ―Materials‖, respectively—and then

there came a flash of memory as to where he had seen that word ―Guards‖ before in

connexion with this dreadful mystery. It was, of course, in the recent letter to Dr. Allen

purporting to be from old Edward Hutchinson; and the phrase had read: ―There was no Neede

to keep the Guards in Shape and eat‘g off their Heads, and it made Much to be founde in

Case of Trouble, as you too welle knowe.‖ What did this signify? But wait—was there not still

another reference to ―guards‖ in this matter which he had failed wholly to recall when reading

the Hutchinson letter? Back in the old non-secretive days Ward had told him of the Eleazar

Smith diary recording the spying of Smith and Weeden on the Curwen farm, and in that

dreadful chronicle there had been a mention of conversations overheard before the old wizard

betook himself wholly beneath the earth. There had been, Smith and Weeden insisted, terrible

colloquies wherein figured Curwen, certain captives of his, and the guards of those captives.

Those guards, according to Hutchinson or his avatar, had ‗eaten their heads off‘, so that now

Dr. Allen did not keep them in shape. And if not in shape, how save as the ―salts‖ to which it

appears this wizard band was engaged in reducing as many human bodies or skeletons as

they could?

So that was what these lekythoi contained; the monstrous fruit of unhallowed rites and deeds,

presumably won or cowed to such submission as to help, when called up by some hellish

incantation, in the defence of their blasphemous master or the questioning of those who were

not so willing? Willett shuddered at the thought of what he had been pouring in and out of his

hands, and for a moment felt an impulse to flee in panic from that cavern of hideous shelves

with their silent and perhaps watching sentinels. Then he thought of the ―Materia‖—in the

myriad Phaleron jugs on the other side of the room. Salts too—and if not the salts of ―guards‖,

then the salts of what? God! Could it be possible that here lay the mortal relics of half the titan

thinkers of all the ages; snatched by supreme ghouls from crypts where the world thought

them safe, and subject to the beck and call of madmen who sought to drain their knowledge

for some still wilder end whose ultimate effect would concern, as poor Charles had hinted in

his frantic note, ‗all civilisation, all natural law, perhaps even the fate of the solar system and

the universe‘? And Marinus Bicknell Willett had sifted their dust through his hands!

Then he noticed a small door at the farther end of the room, and calmed himself enough to

approach it and examine the crude sign chiselled above. It was only a symbol, but it filled him

with vague spiritual dread; for a morbid, dreaming friend of his had once drawn it on paper

and told him a few of the things it means in the dark abyss of sleep. It was the sign of Koth,

that dreamers see fixed above the archway of a certain black tower standing alone in

twilight—and Willett did not like what his friend Randolph Carter had said of its powers. But a

moment later he forgot the sign as he recognised a new acrid odour in the stench-filled air.

This was a chemical rather than animal smell, and came clearly from the room beyond the

door. And it was, unmistakably, the same odour which had saturated Charles Ward‘s clothing

on the day the doctors had taken him away. So it was here that the youth had been

interrupted by the final summons? He was wiser than old Joseph Curwen, for he had not

resisted. Willett, boldly determined to penetrate every wonder and nightmare this nether realm

might contain, seized the small lamp and crossed the threshold. A wave of nameless fright

rolled out to meet him, but he yielded to no whim and deferred to no intuition. There was

nothing alive here to harm him, and he would not be stayed in his piercing of the eldritch

cloud which engulfed his patient.

The room beyond the door was of medium size, and had no furniture save a table, a single

chair, and two groups of curious machines with clamps and wheels, which Willett recognised

after a moment as mediaeval instruments of torture. On one side of the door stood a rack of

savage whips, above which were some shelves bearing empty rows of shallow pedestalled

cups of lead shaped like Grecian kylikes. On the other side was the table; with a powerful

Argand lamp, a pad and pencil, and two of the stoppered lekythoi from the shelves outside set

down at irregular places as if temporarily or in haste. Willett lighted the lamp and looked

carefully at the pad, to see what notes young Ward might have been jotting down when

interrupted; but found nothing more intelligible than the following disjointed fragments in that

crabbed Curwen chirography, which shed no light on the case as a whole:

―B. dy‘d not. Escap‘d into walls and founde Place below.

―Saw olde V. saye ye Sabaoth and learnt ye Way.

―Rais‘d Yog-Sothoth thrice and was ye nexte Day deliver‘d.

―F. soughte to wipe out all know‘g howe to raise Those from Outside.‖

As the strong Argand blaze lit up the entire chamber the doctor saw that the wall opposite the

door, between the two groups of torturing appliances in the corners, was covered with pegs

from which hung a set of shapeless-looking robes of a rather dismal yellowish-white. But far

more interesting were the two vacant walls, both of which were thickly covered with mystic

symbols and formulae roughly chiselled in the smooth dressed stone. The damp floor also

bore marks of carving; and with but little difficulty Willett deciphered a huge pentagram in the

centre, with a plain circle about three feet wide half way between this and each corner. In one

of these four circles, near where a yellowish robe had been flung carelessly down, there stood

a shallow kylix of the sort found on the shelves above the whip-rack; and just outside the

periphery was one of the Phaleron jugs from the shelves in the other room, its tag numbered

118. This was unstoppered, and proved upon inspection to be empty; but the explorer saw

with a shiver that the kylix was not. Within its shallow area, and saved from scattering only by

the absence of wind in this sequestered cavern, lay a small amount of a dry, dull-greenish

efflorescent powder which must have belonged in the jug; and Willett almost reeled at the

implications that came sweeping over him as he correlated little by little the several elements

and antecedents of the scene. The whips and the instruments of torture, the dust or salts from

the jug of ―Materia‖, the two lekythoi from the ―Custodes‖ shelf, the robes, the formulae on the

walls, the notes on the pad, the hints from letters and legends, and the thousand glimpses,

doubts, and suppositions which had come to torment the friends and parents of Charles

Ward—all these engulfed the doctor in a tidal wave of horror as he looked at that dry greenish

powder outspread in the pedestalled leaden kylix on the floor.

With an effort, however, Willett pulled himself together and began studying the formulae

chiselled on the walls. From the stained and incrusted letters it was obvious that they were

carved in Joseph Curwen‘s time, and their text was such as to be vaguely familiar to one who

had read much Curwen material or delved extensively into the history of magic. One the

doctor clearly recognised as what Mrs. Ward heard her son chanting on that ominous Good

Friday a year before, and what an authority had told him was a very terrible invocation

addressed to secret gods outside the normal spheres. It was not spelled here exactly as Mrs.

Ward had set it down from memory, nor yet as the authority had shewn it to him in the

forbidden pages of ―Eliphas Levi‖; but its identity was unmistakable, and such words as

Sabaoth, Metraton, Almousin, and Zariatnatmik sent a shudder of fright through the searcher

who had seen and felt so much of cosmic abomination just around the corner.

This was on the left-hand wall as one entered the room. The right-hand wall was no less

thickly inscribed, and Willett felt a start of recognition as he came upon the pair of formulae so

frequently occurring in the recent notes in the library. They were, roughly speaking, the same;

with the ancient symbols of ―Dragon‘s Head‖ and ―Dragon‘s Tail‖ heading them as in Ward‘s

scribblings. But the spelling differed quite widely from that of the modern versions, as if old

Curwen had had a different way of recording sound, or as if later study had evolved more

powerful and perfected variants of the invocations in question. The doctor tried to reconcile

the chiselled version with the one which still ran persistently in his head, and found it hard to

do. Where the script he had memorised began ―Y’ai ’ng’ngah, Yog-Sothoth”, this epigraph

started out as ―Aye, engengah, Yogge-Sothotha”; which to his mind would seriously interfere

with the syllabification of the second word.

Ground as the later text was into his consciousness, the discrepancy disturbed him; and he

found himself chanting the first of the formulae aloud in an effort to square the sound he

conceived with the letters he found carved. Weird and menacing in that abyss of antique

blasphemy rang his voice; its accents keyed to a droning sing-song either through the spell of

the past and the unknown, or through the hellish example of that dull, godless wail from the

pits whose inhuman cadences rose and fell rhythmically in the distance through the stench

and the darkness.

―Y‘AI ‘NG‘NGAH,

YOG-SOTHOTH

H‘EE—L‘GEB

F‘AI THRODOG

UAAAH!”

But what was this cold wind which had sprung into life at the very outset of the chant? The

lamps were sputtering woefully, and the gloom grew so dense that the letters on the wall

nearly faded from sight. There was smoke, too, and an acrid odour which quite drowned out

the stench from the far-away wells; an odour like that he had smelt before, yet infinitely

stronger and more pungent. He turned from the inscriptions to face the room with its bizarre

contents, and saw that the kylix on the floor, in which the ominous efflorescent powder had

lain, was giving forth a cloud of thick, greenish-black vapour of surprising volume and opacity.

That powder—Great God! it had come from the shelf of ―Materia‖—what was it doing now,

and what had started it? The formula he had been chanting—the first of the pair—Dragon‘s

Head, ascending node—Blessed Saviour, could it be. . . .

The doctor reeled, and through his head raced wildly disjointed scraps from all he had seen,

heard, and read of the frightful case of Joseph Curwen and Charles Dexter Ward. ―I say to

you againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe. . . . Have ye Wordes for laying at

all times readie, and stopp not to be sure when there is any Doubte of Whom you have. . . .

Three Talkes with What was therein inhum’d. . . .‖ Mercy of Heaven, what is that shape

behind the parting smoke?

Marinus Bicknell Willett has no hope that any part of his tale will be believed except by certain

sympathetic friends, hence he has made no attempt to tell it beyond his most intimate circle.

Only a few outsiders have ever heard it repeated, and of these the majority laugh and remark

that the doctor surely is getting old. He has been advised to take a long vacation and to shun

future cases dealing with mental disturbance. But Mr. Ward knows that the veteran physician

speaks only a horrible truth. Did not he himself see the noisome aperture in the bungalow

cellar? Did not Willett send him home overcome and ill at eleven o‘clock that portentous

morning? Did he not telephone the doctor in vain that evening, and again the next day, and

had he not driven to the bungalow itself on that following noon, finding his friend unconscious

but unharmed on one of the beds upstairs? Willett had been breathing stertorously, and

opened his eyes slowly when Mr. Ward gave him some brandy fetched from the car. Then he

shuddered and screamed, crying out, ―That beard . . . those eyes. . . . God, who are you?” A

very strange thing to say to a trim, blue-eyed, clean-shaven gentleman whom he had known

from the latter‘s boyhood.

In the bright noon sunlight the bungalow was unchanged since the previous morning. Willett‘s

clothing bore no disarrangement beyond certain smudges and worn places at the knees, and

only a faint acrid odour reminded Mr. Ward of what he had smelt on his son that day he was

taken to the hospital. The doctor‘s flashlight was missing, but his valise was safely there, as

empty as when he had brought it. Before indulging in any explanations, and obviously with

great moral effort, Willett staggered dizzily down to the cellar and tried the fateful platform

before the tubs. It was unyielding. Crossing to where he had left his yet unused tool satchel

the day before, he obtained a chisel and began to pry up the stubborn planks one by one.

Underneath the smooth concrete was still visible, but of any opening or perforation there was

no longer a trace. Nothing yawned this time to sicken the mystified father who had followed

the doctor downstairs; only the smooth concrete underneath the planks—no noisome well, no

world of subterrene horrors, no secret library, no Curwen papers, no nightmare pits of stench

and howling, no laboratory or shelves or chiselled formulae, no. . . . Dr. Willett turned pale,

and clutched at the younger man. ―Yesterday,‖ he asked softly, ―did you see it here . . . and

smell it?‖ And when Mr. Ward, himself transfixed with dread and wonder, found strength to

nod an affirmative, the physician gave a sound half a sigh and half a gasp, and nodded in

turn. ―Then I will tell you,‖ he said.

So for an hour, in the sunniest room they could find upstairs, the physician whispered his

frightful tale to the wondering father. There was nothing to relate beyond the looming up of

that form when the greenish-black vapour from the kylix parted, and Willett was too tired to

ask himself what had really occurred. There were futile, bewildered head-shakings from both

men, and once Mr. Ward ventured a hushed suggestion, ―Do you suppose it would be of any

use to dig?‖ The doctor was silent, for it seemed hardly fitting for any human brain to answer

when powers of unknown spheres had so vitally encroached on this side of the Great Abyss.

Again Mr. Ward asked, ―But where did it go? It brought you here, you know, and it sealed up

the hole somehow.‖ And Willett again let silence answer for him.

But after all, this was not the final phase of the matter. Reaching for his handkerchief before

rising to leave, Dr. Willett‘s fingers closed upon a piece of paper in his pocket which had not

been there before, and which was companioned by the candles and matches he had seized

in the vanished vault. It was a common sheet, torn obviously from the cheap pad in that

fabulous room of horror somewhere underground, and the writing upon it was that of an

ordinary lead pencil—doubtless the one which had lain beside the pad. It was folded very

carelessly, and beyond the faint acrid scent of the cryptic chamber bore no print or mark of

any world but this. But in the text itself it did indeed reek with wonder; for here was no script of

any wholesome age, but the laboured strokes of mediaeval darkness, scarcely legible to the

laymen who now strained over it, yet having combinations of symbols which seemed vaguely

familiar. The briefly scrawled message was this, and its mystery lent purpose to the shaken

pair, who forthwith walked steadily out to the Ward car and gave orders to be driven first to a

quiet dining place and then to the John Hay Library on the hill.

At the library it was easy to find good manuals of palaeography, and over these the two men

puzzled till the lights of evening shone out from the great chandelier. In the end they found

what was needed. The letters were indeed no fantastic invention, but the normal script of a

very dark period. They were the pointed Saxon minuscules of the eighth or ninth century A.D.,

and brought with them memories of an uncouth time when under a fresh Christian veneer

ancient faiths and ancient rites stirred stealthily, and the pale moon of Britain looked

sometimes on strange deeds in the Roman ruins of Caerleon and Hexham, and by the towers

along Hadrian‘s crumbling wall. The words were in such Latin as a barbarous age might

remember—―Corvinus necandus est. Cadaver aq(ua) forti dissolvendum, nec aliq(ui)d

retinendum. Tace ut potes.”—which may roughly be translated, ―Curwen must be killed. The

body must be dissolved in aqua fortis, nor must anything be retained. Keep silence as best

you are able.‖

Willett and Mr. Ward were mute and baffled. They had met the unknown, and found that they

lacked emotions to respond to it as they vaguely believed they ought. With Willett, especially,

the capacity for receiving fresh impressions of awe was well-nigh exhausted; and both men

sat still and helpless till the closing of the library forced them to leave. Then they drove

listlessly to the Ward mansion in Prospect Street, and talked to no purpose into the night. The

doctor rested toward morning, but did not go home. And he was still there Sunday noon when

a telephone message came from the detectives who had been assigned to look up Dr. Allen.

Mr. Ward, who was pacing nervously about in a dressing-gown, answered the call in person;

and told the men to come up early the next day when he heard their report was almost ready.

Both Willett and he were glad that this phase of the matter was taking form, for whatever the

origin of the strange minuscule message, it seemed certain that the ―Curwen‖ who must be

destroyed could be no other than the bearded and spectacled stranger. Charles had feared

this man, and had said in the frantic note that he must be killed and dissolved in acid. Allen,

moreover, had been receiving letters from the strange wizards in Europe under the name of

Curwen, and palpably regarded himself as an avatar of the bygone necromancer. And now

from a fresh and unknown source had come a message saying that ―Curwen‖ must be killed

and dissolved in acid. The linkage was too unmistakable to be factitious; and besides, was not

Allen planning to murder young Ward upon the advice of the creature called Hutchinson? Of

course, the letter they had seen had never reached the bearded stranger; but from its text

they could see that Allen had already formed plans for dealing with the youth if he grew too

‗squeamish‘. Without doubt, Allen must be apprehended; and even if the most drastic

directions were not carried out, he must be placed where he could inflict no harm upon

Charles Ward.

That afternoon, hoping against hope to extract some gleam of information anent the inmost

mysteries from the only available one capable of giving it, the father and the doctor went

down the bay and called on young Charles at the hospital. Simply and gravely Willett told him

all he had found, and noticed how pale he turned as each description made certain the truth

of the discovery. The physician employed as much dramatic effect as he could, and watched

for a wincing on Charles‘s part when he approached the matter of the covered pits and the

nameless hybrids within. But Ward did not wince. Willett paused, and his voice grew indignant

as he spoke of how the things were starving. He taxed the youth with shocking inhumanity,

and shivered when only a sardonic laugh came in reply. For Charles, having dropped as

useless his pretence that the crypt did not exist, seemed to see some ghastly jest in this

affair; and chuckled hoarsely at something which amused him. Then he whispered, in accents

doubly terrible because of the cracked voice he used, ―Damn ‘em, they do eat, but they don’t

need to! That‘s the rare part! A month, you say, without food? Lud, Sir, you be modest! D‘ye

know, that was the joke on poor old Whipple with his virtuous bluster! Kill everything off, would

he? Why, damme, he was half-deaf with the noise from Outside and never saw or heard

aught from the wells! He never dreamed they were there at all! Devil take ye, those cursed

things have been howling down there ever since Curwen was done for a hundred and fifty-

seven years gone!”

But no more than this could Willett get from the youth. Horrified, yet almost convinced against

his will, he went on with his tale in the hope that some incident might startle his auditor out of

the mad composure he maintained. Looking at the youth‘s face, the doctor could not but feel a

kind of terror at the changes which recent months had wrought. Truly, the boy had drawn

down nameless horrors from the skies. When the room with the formulae and the greenish

dust was mentioned, Charles shewed his first sign of animation. A quizzical look overspread

his face as he heard what Willett had read on the pad, and he ventured the mild statement

that those notes were old ones, of no possible significance to anyone not deeply initiated in

the history of magic. ―But,‖ he added, ―had you but known the words to bring up that which I

had out in the cup, you had not been here to tell me this. ‘Twas Number 118, and I conceive

you would have shook had you looked it up in my list in t‘other room. ‘Twas never raised by

me, but I meant to have it up that day you came to invite me hither.‖

Then Willett told of the formula he had spoken and of the greenish-black smoke which had

arisen; and as he did so he saw true fear dawn for the first time on Charles Ward‘s face. ―It

came, and you be here alive?‖ As Ward croaked the words his voice seemed almost to burst

free of its trammels and sink to cavernous abysses of uncanny resonance. Willett, gifted with

a flash of inspiration, believed he saw the situation, and wove into his reply a caution from a

letter he remembered. ―No. 118, you say? But don‘t forget that stones are all changed now in

nine grounds out of ten. You are never sure till you question!” And then, without warning, he

drew forth the minuscule message and flashed it before the patient‘s eyes. He could have

wished no stronger result, for Charles Ward fainted forthwith.

All this conversation, of course, had been conducted with the greatest secrecy lest the

resident alienists accuse the father and the physician of encouraging a madman in his

delusions. Unaided, too, Dr. Willett and Mr. Ward picked up the stricken youth and placed him

on the couch. In reviving, the patient mumbled many times of some word which he must get

to Orne and Hutchinson at once; so when his consciousness seemed fully back the doctor

told him that of those strange creatures at least one was his bitter enemy, and had given Dr.

Allen advice for his assassination. This revelation produced no visible effect, and before it was

made the visitors could see that their host had already the look of a hunted man. After that he

would converse no more, so Willett and the father departed presently; leaving behind a

caution against the bearded Allen, to which the youth only replied that this individual was very

safely taken care of, and could do no one any harm even if he wished. This was said with an

almost evil chuckle very painful to hear. They did not worry about any communications

Charles might indite to that monstrous pair in Europe, since they knew that the hospital

authorities seized all outgoing mail for censorship and would pass no wild or outré-looking

missive.

There is, however, a curious sequel to the matter of Orne and Hutchinson, if such indeed the

exiled wizards were. Moved by some vague presentiment amidst the horrors of that period,

Willett arranged with an international press-cutting bureau for accounts of notable current

crimes and accidents in Prague and in eastern Transylvania; and after six months believed

that he had found two very significant things amongst the multifarious items he received and

had translated. One was the total wrecking of a house by night in the oldest quarter of

Prague, and the disappearance of the evil old man called Josef Nadek, who had dwelt in it

alone ever since anyone could remember. The other was a titan explosion in the

Transylvanian mountains east of Rakus, and the utter extirpation with all its inmates of the ill-

regarded Castle Ferenczy, whose master was so badly spoken of by peasants and soldiery

alike that he would shortly have been summoned to Bucharest for serious questioning had not

this incident cut off a career already so long as to antedate all common memory. Willett

maintains that the hand which wrote those minuscules was able to wield stronger weapons as

well; and that while Curwen was left to him to dispose of, the writer felt able to find and deal

with Orne and Hutchinson itself. Of what their fate may have been the doctor strives

sedulously not to think.

The following morning Dr. Willett hastened to the Ward home to be present when the

detectives arrived. Allen‘s destruction or imprisonment—or Curwen‘s, if one might regard the

tacit claim to reincarnation as valid—he felt must be accomplished at any cost, and he

communicated this conviction to Mr. Ward as they sat waiting for the men to come. They were

downstairs this time, for the upper parts of the house were beginning to be shunned because

of a peculiar nauseousness which hung indefinitely about; a nauseousness which the older

servants connected with some curse left by the vanished Curwen portrait.

At nine o‘clock the three detectives presented themselves and immediately delivered all that

they had to say. They had not, regrettably enough, located the Brava Tony Gomes as they

had wished, nor had they found the least trace of Dr. Allen‘s source or present whereabouts;

but they had managed to unearth a considerable number of local impressions and facts

concerning the reticent stranger. Allen had struck Pawtuxet people as a vaguely unnatural

being, and there was an universal belief that his thick sandy beard was either dyed or false—

a belief conclusively upheld by the finding of such a false beard, together with a pair of dark

glasses, in his room at the fateful bungalow. His voice, Mr. Ward could well testify from his

one telephone conversation, had a depth and hollowness that could not be forgotten; and his

glance seemed malign even through his smoked and horn-rimmed glasses. One shopkeeper,

in the course of negotiations, had seen a specimen of his handwriting and declared it was

very queer and crabbed; this being confirmed by pencilled notes of no clear meaning found in

his room and identified by the merchant. In connexion with the vampirism rumours of the

preceding summer, a majority of the gossips believed that Allen rather than Ward was the

actual vampire. Statements were also obtained from the officials who had visited the

bungalow after the unpleasant incident of the motor truck robbery. They had felt less of the

sinister in Dr. Allen, but had recognised him as the dominant figure in the queer shadowy

cottage. The place had been too dark for them to observe him clearly, but they would know

him again if they saw him. His beard had looked odd, and they thought he had some slight

scar above his dark spectacled right eye. As for the detectives‘ search of Allen‘s room, it

yielded nothing definite save the beard and glasses, and several pencilled notes in a crabbed

writing which Willett at once saw was identical with that shared by the old Curwen

manuscripts and by the voluminous recent notes of young Ward found in the vanished

catacombs of horror.

Dr. Willett and Mr. Ward caught something of a profound, subtle, and insidious cosmic fear

from this data as it was gradually unfolded, and almost trembled in following up the vague,

mad thought which had simultaneously reached their minds. The false beard and glasses—

the crabbed Curwen penmanship—the old portrait and its tiny scar—and the altered youth in

the hospital with such a scar—that deep, hollow voice on the telephone—was it not of this

that Mr. Ward was reminded when his son barked forth those pitiable tones to which he now

claimed to be reduced? Who had ever seen Charles and Allen together? Yes, the officials had

once, but who later on? Was it not when Allen left that Charles suddenly lost his growing fright

and began to live wholly at the bungalow? Curwen—Allen—Ward—in what blasphemous and

abominable fusion had two ages and two persons become involved? That damnable

resemblance of the picture to Charles—had it not used to stare and stare, and follow the boy

around the room with its eyes? Why, too, did both Allen and Charles copy Joseph Curwen‘s

handwriting, even when alone and off guard? And then the frightful work of those people—the

lost crypt of horrors that had aged the doctor overnight; the starved monsters in the noisome

pits; the awful formula which had yielded such nameless results; the message in minuscules

found in Willett‘s pocket; the papers and the letters and all the talk of graves and ―salts‖ and

discoveries—whither did everything lead? In the end Mr. Ward did the most sensible thing.

Steeling himself against any realisation of why he did it, he gave the detectives an article to

be shewn to such Pawtuxet shopkeepers as had seen the portentous Dr. Allen. That article

was a photograph of his luckless son, on which he now carefully drew in ink the pair of heavy

glasses and the black pointed beard which the men had brought from Allen‘s room.

For two hours he waited with the doctor in the oppressive house where fear and miasma were

slowly gathering as the empty panel in the upstairs library leered and leered and leered. Then

the men returned. Yes. The altered photograph was a very passable likeness of Dr. Allen. Mr.

Ward turned pale, and Willett wiped a suddenly dampened brow with his handkerchief.

Allen—Ward—Curwen—it was becoming too hideous for coherent thought. What had the boy

called out of the void, and what had it done to him? What, really, had happened from first to

last? Who was this Allen who sought to kill Charles as too ‗squeamish‘, and why had his

destined victim said in the postscript to that frantic letter that he must be so completely

obliterated in acid? Why, too, had the minuscule message, of whose origin no one dared

think, said that ―Curwen‖ must be likewise obliterated? What was the change, and when had

the final stage occurred? That day when his frantic note was received—he had been nervous

all the morning, then there was an alteration. He had slipped out unseen and swaggered

boldly in past the men hired to guard him. That was the time, when he was out. But no—had

he not cried out in terror as he entered his study—this very room? What had he found there?

Or wait—what had found him? That simulacrum which brushed boldly in without having been

seen to go—was that an alien shadow and a horror forcing itself upon a trembling figure

which had never gone out at all? Had not the butler spoken of queer noises?

Willett rang for the man and asked him some low-toned questions. It had, surely enough,

been a bad business. There had been noises—a cry, a gasp, a choking, and a sort of

clattering or creaking or thumping, or all of these. And Mr. Charles was not the same when he

stalked out without a word. The butler shivered as he spoke, and sniffed at the heavy air that

blew down from some open window upstairs. Terror had settled definitely upon the house, and

only the business-like detectives failed to imbibe a full measure of it. Even they were restless,

for this case had held vague elements in the background which pleased them not at all. Dr.

Willett was thinking deeply and rapidly, and his thoughts were terrible ones. Now and then he

would almost break into muttering as he ran over in his head a new, appalling, and

increasingly conclusive chain of nightmare happenings.

Then Mr. Ward made a sign that the conference was over, and everyone save him and the

doctor left the room. It was noon now, but shadows as of coming night seemed to engulf the

phantom-haunted mansion. Willett began talking very seriously to his host, and urged that he

leave a great deal of the future investigation to him. There would be, he predicted, certain

obnoxious elements which a friend could bear better than a relative. As family physician he

must have a free hand, and the first thing he required was a period alone and undisturbed in

the abandoned library upstairs, where the ancient overmantel had gathered about itself an

aura of noisome horror more intense than when Joseph Curwen‘s features themselves

glanced slyly down from the painted panel.

Mr. Ward, dazed by the flood of grotesque morbidities and unthinkably maddening

suggestions that poured in upon him from every side, could only acquiesce; and half an hour

later the doctor was locked in the shunned room with the panelling from Olney Court. The

father, listening outside, heard fumbling sounds of moving and rummaging as the moments

passed; and finally a wrench and a creak, as if a tight cupboard door were being opened.

Then there was a muffled cry, a kind of snorting choke, and a hasty slamming of whatever

had been opened. Almost at once the key rattled and Willett appeared in the hall, haggard

and ghastly, and demanding wood for the real fireplace on the south wall of the room. The

furnace was not enough, he said; and the electric log had little practical use. Longing yet not

daring to ask questions, Mr. Ward gave the requisite orders and a man brought some stout

pine logs, shuddering as he entered the tainted air of the library to place them in the grate.

Willett meanwhile had gone up to the dismantled laboratory and brought down a few odds

and ends not included in the moving of the July before. They were in a covered basket, and

Mr. Ward never saw what they were.

Then the doctor locked himself in the library once more, and by the clouds of smoke which

rolled down past the windows from the chimney it was known that he had lighted the fire.

Later, after a great rustling of newspapers, that odd wrench and creaking were heard again;

followed by a thumping which none of the eavesdroppers liked. Thereafter two suppressed

cries of Willett‘s were heard, and hard upon these came a swishing rustle of indefinable

hatefulness. Finally the smoke that the wind beat down from the chimney grew very dark and

acrid, and everyone wished that the weather had spared them this choking and venomous

inundation of peculiar fumes. Mr. Ward‘s head reeled, and the servants all clustered together

in a knot to watch the horrible black smoke swoop down. After an age of waiting the vapours

seemed to lighten, and half-formless sounds of scraping, sweeping, and other minor

operations were heard behind the bolted door. And at last, after the slamming of some

cupboard within, Willett made his appearance—sad, pale, and haggard, and bearing the

cloth-draped basket he had taken from the upstairs laboratory. He had left the window open,

and into that once accursed room was pouring a wealth of pure, wholesome air to mix with a

queer new smell of disinfectants. The ancient overmantel still lingered; but it seemed robbed

of malignity now, and rose as calm and stately in its white panelling as if it had never borne

the picture of Joseph Curwen. Night was coming on, yet this time its shadows held no latent

fright, but only a gentle melancholy. Of what he had done the doctor would never speak. To

Mr. Ward he said, ―I can answer no questions, but I will say that there are different kinds of

magic. I have made a great purgation, and those in this house will sleep the better for it.‖

That Dr. Willett‘s ―purgation‖ had been an ordeal almost as nerve-racking in its way as his

hideous wandering in the vanished crypt is shewn by the fact that the elderly physician gave

out completely as soon as he reached home that evening. For three days he rested

constantly in his room, though servants later muttered something about having heard him

after midnight on Wednesday, when the outer door softly opened and closed with phenomenal

softness. Servants‘ imaginations, fortunately, are limited, else comment might have been

excited by an item in Thursday‘s Evening Bulletin which ran as follows:

North End Ghouls Active Again

After a lull of ten months since the dastardly vandalism in the Weeden lot at the

North Burial Ground, a nocturnal prowler was glimpsed early this morning in the

same cemetery by Robert Hart, the night watchman. Happening to glance for a

moment from his shelter at about 2 a.m., Hart observed the glow of a lantern or

pocket torch not far to the northwest, and upon opening the door detected the

figure of a man with a trowel very plainly silhouetted against a nearby electric light.

At once starting in pursuit, he saw the figure dart hurriedly toward the main

entrance, gaining the street and losing himself among the shadows before

approach or capture was possible.

Like the first of the ghouls active during the past year, this intruder had done no

real damage before detection. A vacant part of the Ward lot shewed signs of a little

superficial digging, but nothing even nearly the size of a grave had been

attempted, and no previous grave had been disturbed.

Hart, who cannot describe the prowler except as a small man probably having a full

beard, inclines to the view that all three of the digging incidents have a common

source; but police from the Second Station think otherwise on account of the

savage nature of the second incident, where an ancient coffin was removed and its

headstone violently shattered.

The first of the incidents, in which it is thought an attempt to bury something was

frustrated, occurred a year ago last March, and has been attributed to bootleggers

seeking a cache. It is possible, says Sergt. Riley, that this third affair is of similar

nature. Officers at the Second Station are taking especial pains to capture the gang

of miscreants responsible for these repeated outrages.

All day Thursday Dr. Willett rested as if recuperating from something past or nerving himself

for something to come. In the evening he wrote a note to Mr. Ward, which was delivered the

next morning and which caused the half-dazed parent to ponder long and deeply. Mr. Ward

had not been able to go down to business since the shock of Monday with its baffling reports

and its sinister ―purgation‖, but he found something calming about the doctor‘s letter in spite of

the despair it seemed to promise and the fresh mysteries it seemed to evoke.

―10 Barnes St.,

Providence, R.I.,

April 12, 1928.

―Dear Theodore:—I feel that I must say a word to you before doing what I am going

to do tomorrow. It will conclude the terrible business we have been going through

(for I feel that no spade is ever likely to reach that monstrous place we know of),

but I‘m afraid it won‘t set your mind at rest unless I expressly assure you how very

conclusive it is.

―You have known me ever since you were a small boy, so I think you will not

distrust me when I hint that some matters are best left undecided and unexplored.

It is better that you attempt no further speculation as to Charles‘s case, and almost

imperative that you tell his mother nothing more than she already suspects. When I

call on you tomorrow Charles will have escaped. That is all which need remain in

anyone‘s mind. He was mad, and he escaped. You can tell his mother gently and

gradually about the mad part when you stop sending the typed notes in his name.

I‘d advise you to join her in Atlantic City and take a rest yourself. God knows you

need one after this shock, as I do myself. I am going South for a while to calm

down and brace up.

―So don‘t ask me any questions when I call. It may be that something will go wrong,

but I‘ll tell you if it does. I don‘t think it will. There will be nothing more to worry

about, for Charles will be very, very safe. He is now—safer than you dream. You

need hold no fears about Allen, and who or what he is. He forms as much a part of

the past as Joseph Curwen‘s picture, and when I ring your doorbell you may feel

certain that there is no such person. And what wrote that minuscule message will

never trouble you or yours.

―But you must steel yourself to melancholy, and prepare your wife to do the same. I

must tell you frankly that Charles‘s escape will not mean his restoration to you. He

has been afflicted with a peculiar disease, as you must realise from the subtle

physical as well as mental changes in him, and you must not hope to see him

again. Have only this consolation—that he was never a fiend or even truly a

madman, but only an eager, studious, and curious boy whose love of mystery and

of the past was his undoing. He stumbled on things no mortal ought ever to know,

and reached back through the years as no one ever should reach; and something

came out of those years to engulf him.

―And now comes the matter in which I must ask you to trust me most of all. For

there will be, indeed, no uncertainty about Charles‘s fate. In about a year, say, you

can if you wish devise a suitable account of the end; for the boy will be no more.

You can put up a stone in your lot at the North Burial Ground exactly ten feet west

of your father‘s and facing the same way, and that will mark the true resting-place

of your son. Nor need you fear that it will mark any abnormality or changeling. The

ashes in that grave will be those of your own unaltered bone and sinew—of the

real Charles Dexter Ward whose mind you watched from infancy—the real Charles

with the olive-mark on his hip and without the black witch-mark on his chest or the

pit on his forehead. The Charles who never did actual evil, and who will have paid

with his life for his ‗squeamishness‘.

―That is all. Charles will have escaped, and a year from now you can put up his

stone. Do not question me tomorrow. And believe that the honour of your ancient

family remains untainted now, as it has been at all times in the past.

―With profoundest sympathy, and exhortations to fortitude, calmness, and

resignation, I am ever

Sincerely your friend,

Marinus B. Willett‖

So on the morning of Friday, April 13, 1928, Marinus Bicknell Willett visited the room of

Charles Dexter Ward at Dr. Waite‘s private hospital on Conanicut Island. The youth, though

making no attempt to evade his caller, was in a sullen mood; and seemed disinclined to open

the conversation which Willett obviously desired. The doctor‘s discovery of the crypt and his

monstrous experience therein had of course created a new source of embarrassment, so that

both hesitated perceptibly after the interchange of a few strained formalities. Then a new

element of constraint crept in, as Ward seemed to read behind the doctor‘s mask-like face a

terrible purpose which had never been there before. The patient quailed, conscious that since

the last visit there had been a change whereby the solicitous family physician had given place

to the ruthless and implacable avenger.

Ward actually turned pale, and the doctor was the first to speak. ―More,‖ he said, ―has been

found out, and I must warn you fairly that a reckoning is due.‖

―Digging again, and coming upon more poor starving pets?‖ was the ironic reply. It was

evident that the youth meant to shew bravado to the last.

―No,‖ Willett slowly rejoined, ―this time I did not have to dig. We have had men looking up Dr.

Allen, and they found the false beard and spectacles in the bungalow.‖

―Excellent,‖ commented the disquieted host in an effort to be wittily insulting, ―and I trust they

proved more becoming than the beard and glasses you now have on!‖

―They would become you very well,‖ came the even and studied response, ―as indeed they

seem to have done.”

As Willett said this, it almost seemed as though a cloud passed over the sun; though there

was no change in the shadows on the floor. Then Ward ventured:

―And is this what asks so hotly for a reckoning? Suppose a man does find it now and then

useful to be twofold?‖

―No,‖ said Willett gravely, ―again you are wrong. It is no business of mine if any man seeks

duality; provided he has any right to exist at all, and provided he does not destroy what called

him out of space.”

Ward now started violently. ―Well, Sir, what have ye found, and what d‘ye want with me?‖

The doctor let a little time elapse before replying, as if choosing his words for an effective

answer.

―I have found,‖ he finally intoned, ―something in a cupboard behind an ancient overmantel

where a picture once was, and I have burned it and buried the ashes where the grave of

Charles Dexter Ward ought to be.‖

The madman choked and sprang from the chair in which he had been sitting:

―Damn ye, who did ye tell—and who‘ll believe it was he after these full two months, with me

alive? What d‘ye mean to do?‖

Willett, though a small man, actually took on a kind of judicial majesty as he calmed the

patient with a gesture.

―I have told no one. This is no common case—it is a madness out of time and a horror from

beyond the spheres which no police or lawyers or courts or alienists could ever fathom or

grapple with. Thank God some chance has left inside me the spark of imagination, that I might

not go astray in thinking out this thing. You cannot deceive me, Joseph Curwen, for I know

that your accursed magic is true!

―I know how you wove the spell that brooded outside the years and fastened on your double

and descendant; I know how you drew him into the past and got him to raise you up from your

detestable grave; I know how he kept you hidden in his laboratory while you studied modern

things and roved abroad as a vampire by night, and how you later shewed yourself in beard

and glasses that no one might wonder at your godless likeness to him; I know what you

resolved to do when he balked at your monstrous rifling of the world‘s tombs, and at what you

planned afterward, and I know how you did it.

―You left off your beard and glasses and fooled the guards around the house. They thought it

was he who went in, and they thought it was he who came out when you had strangled and

hidden him. But you hadn‘t reckoned on the different contents of two minds. You were a fool,

Curwen, to fancy that a mere visual identity would be enough. Why didn‘t you think of the

speech and the voice and the handwriting? It hasn‘t worked, you see, after all. You know

better than I who or what wrote that message in minuscules, but I will warn you it was not

written in vain. There are abominations and blasphemies which must be stamped out, and I

believe that the writer of those words will attend to Orne and Hutchinson. One of those

creatures wrote you once, ‗do not call up any that you can not put down‘. You were undone

once before, perhaps in that very way, and it may be that your own evil magic will undo you all

again. Curwen, a man can‘t tamper with Nature beyond certain limits, and every horror you

have woven will rise up to wipe you out.‖

But here the doctor was cut short by a convulsive cry from the creature before him.

Hopelessly at bay, weaponless, and knowing that any show of physical violence would bring a

score of attendants to the doctor‘s rescue, Joseph Curwen had recourse to his one ancient

ally, and began a series of cabbalistic motions with his forefingers as his deep, hollow voice,

now unconcealed by feigned hoarseness, bellowed out the opening words of a terrible

formula.

―PER ADONAI ELOIM, ADONAI JEHOVA, ADONAI SABAOTH, METRATON. . . .‖

But Willett was too quick for him. Even as the dogs in the yard outside began to howl, and

even as a chill wind sprang suddenly up from the bay, the doctor commenced the solemn and

measured intonation of that which he had meant all along to recite. An eye for an eye—magic

for magic—let the outcome shew how well the lesson of the abyss had been learned! So in a

clear voice Marinus Bicknell Willett began the second of that pair of formulae whose first had

raised the writer of those minuscules—the cryptic invocation whose heading was the

Dragon‘s Tail, sign of the descending node—

―OGTHROD AI‘F

GEB‘L—EE‘H

YOG-SOTHOTH

‗NGAH‘NG AI‘Y

ZHRO!”

At the very first word from Willett‘s mouth the previously commenced formula of the patient

stopped short. Unable to speak, the monster made wild motions with his arms until they too

were arrested. When the awful name of Yog-Sothoth was uttered, the hideous change began.

It was not merely a dissolution, but rather a transformation or recapitulation; and Willett shut

his eyes lest he faint before the rest of the incantation could be pronounced.

But he did not faint, and that man of unholy centuries and forbidden secrets never troubled

the world again. The madness out of time had subsided, and the case of Charles Dexter Ward

was closed. Opening his eyes before staggering out of that room of horror, Dr. Willett saw that

what he had kept in memory had not been kept amiss. There had, as he had predicted, been

no need for acids. For like his accursed picture a year before, Joseph Curwen now lay

scattered on the floor as a thin coating of fine bluish-grey dust.

Return to Table of Contents

The Colour Out of Space

(1927)

West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever

cut. There are dark narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where thin brooklets

trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight. On the gentler slopes there are farms,

ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternally over old New England

secrets in the lee of great ledges; but these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling

and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.

The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. French-Canadians have

tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles have come and departed. It is not because of

anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined.

The place is not good for the imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night. It must

be this which keeps the foreigners away, for old Ammi Pierce has never told them of anything

he recalls from the strange days. Ammi, whose head has been a little queer for years, is the

only one who still remains, or who ever talks of the strange days; and he dares to do this

because his house is so near the open fields and the travelled roads around Arkham.

There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran straight where the

blasted heath is now; but people ceased to use it and a new road was laid curving far toward

the south. Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness,

and some of them will doubtless linger even when half the hollows are flooded for the new

reservoir. Then the dark woods will be cut down and the blasted heath will slumber far below

blue waters whose surface will mirror the sky and ripple in the sun. And the secrets of the

strange days will be one with the deep‘s secrets; one with the hidden lore of old ocean, and all

the mystery of primal earth.

When I went into the hills and vales to survey for the new reservoir they told me the place was

evil. They told me this in Arkham, and because that is a very old town full of witch legends I

thought the evil must be something which grandams had whispered to children through

centuries. The name ―blasted heath‖ seemed to me very odd and theatrical, and I wondered

how it had come into the folklore of a Puritan people. Then I saw that dark westward tangle of

glens and slopes for myself, and ceased to wonder at anything besides its own elder mystery.

It was morning when I saw it, but shadow lurked always there. The trees grew too thickly, and

their trunks were too big for any healthy New England wood. There was too much silence in

the dim alleys between them, and the floor was too soft with the dank moss and mattings of

infinite years of decay.

In the open spaces, mostly along the line of the old road, there were little hillside farms;

sometimes with all the buildings standing, sometimes with only one or two, and sometimes

with only a lone chimney or fast-filling cellar. Weeds and briers reigned, and furtive wild things

rustled in the undergrowth. Upon everything was a haze of restlessness and oppression; a

touch of the unreal and the grotesque, as if some vital element of perspective or chiaroscuro

were awry. I did not wonder that the foreigners would not stay, for this was no region to sleep

in. It was too much like a landscape of Salvator Rosa; too much like some forbidden woodcut

in a tale of terror.

But even all this was not so bad as the blasted heath. I knew it the moment I came upon it at

the bottom of a spacious valley; for no other name could fit such a thing, or any other thing fit

such a name. It was as if the poet had coined the phrase from having seen this one particular

region. It must, I thought as I viewed it, be the outcome of a fire; but why had nothing new

ever grown over those five acres of grey desolation that sprawled open to the sky like a great

spot eaten by acid in the woods and fields? It lay largely to the north of the ancient road line,

but encroached a little on the other side. I felt an odd reluctance about approaching, and did

so at last only because my business took me through and past it. There was no vegetation of

any kind on that broad expanse, but only a fine grey dust or ash which no wind seemed ever

to blow about. The trees near it were sickly and stunted, and many dead trunks stood or lay

rotting at the rim. As I walked hurriedly by I saw the tumbled bricks and stones of an old

chimney and cellar on my right, and the yawning black maw of an abandoned well whose

stagnant vapours played strange tricks with the hues of the sunlight. Even the long, dark

woodland climb beyond seemed welcome in contrast, and I marvelled no more at the

frightened whispers of Arkham people. There had been no house or ruin near; even in the old

days the place must have been lonely and remote. And at twilight, dreading to repass that

ominous spot, I walked circuitously back to the town by the curving road on the south. I

vaguely wished some clouds would gather, for an odd timidity about the deep skyey voids

above had crept into my soul.

In the evening I asked old people in Arkham about the blasted heath, and what was meant by

that phrase ―strange days‖ which so many evasively muttered. I could not, however, get any

good answers, except that all the mystery was much more recent than I had dreamed. It was

not a matter of old legendry at all, but something within the lifetime of those who spoke. It had

happened in the ‘eighties, and a family had disappeared or was killed. Speakers would not be

exact; and because they all told me to pay no attention to old Ammi Pierce‘s crazy tales, I

sought him out the next morning, having heard that he lived alone in the ancient tottering

cottage where the trees first begin to get very thick. It was a fearsomely archaic place, and

had begun to exude the faint miasmal odour which clings about houses that have stood too

long. Only with persistent knocking could I rouse the aged man, and when he shuffled timidly

to the door I could tell he was not glad to see me. He was not so feeble as I had expected; but

his eyes drooped in a curious way, and his unkempt clothing and white beard made him seem

very worn and dismal. Not knowing just how he could best be launched on his tales, I feigned

a matter of business; told him of my surveying, and asked vague questions about the district.

He was far brighter and more educated than I had been led to think, and before I knew it had

grasped quite as much of the subject as any man I had talked with in Arkham. He was not like

other rustics I had known in the sections where reservoirs were to be. From him there were

no protests at the miles of old wood and farmland to be blotted out, though perhaps there

would have been had not his home lain outside the bounds of the future lake. Relief was all

that he shewed; relief at the doom of the dark ancient valleys through which he had roamed

all his life. They were better under water now—better under water since the strange days. And

with this opening his husky voice sank low, while his body leaned forward and his right

forefinger began to point shakily and impressively.

It was then that I heard the story, and as the rambling voice scraped and whispered on I

shivered again and again despite the summer day. Often I had to recall the speaker from

ramblings, piece out scientific points which he knew only by a fading parrot memory of

professors‘ talk, or bridge over gaps where his sense of logic and continuity broke down.

When he was done I did not wonder that his mind had snapped a trifle, or that the folk of

Arkham would not speak much of the blasted heath. I hurried back before sunset to my hotel,

unwilling to have the stars come out above me in the open; and the next day returned to

Boston to give up my position. I could not go into that dim chaos of old forest and slope again,

or face another time that grey blasted heath where the black well yawned deep beside the

tumbled bricks and stones. The reservoir will soon be built now, and all those elder secrets

will be safe forever under watery fathoms. But even then I do not believe I would like to visit

that country by night—at least, not when the sinister stars are out; and nothing could bribe me

to drink the new city water of Arkham.

It all began, old Ammi said, with the meteorite. Before that time there had been no wild

legends at all since the witch trials, and even then these western woods were not feared half

so much as the small island in the Miskatonic where the devil held court beside a curious

stone altar older than the Indians. These were not haunted woods, and their fantastic dusk

was never terrible till the strange days. Then there had come that white noontide cloud, that

string of explosions in the air, and that pillar of smoke from the valley far in the wood. And by

night all Arkham had heard of the great rock that fell out of the sky and bedded itself in the

ground beside the well at the Nahum Gardner place. That was the house which had stood

where the blasted heath was to come—the trim white Nahum Gardner house amidst its fertile

gardens and orchards.

Nahum had come to town to tell people about the stone, and had dropped in at Ammi Pierce‘s

on the way. Ammi was forty then, and all the queer things were fixed very strongly in his mind.

He and his wife had gone with the three professors from Miskatonic University who hastened

out the next morning to see the weird visitor from unknown stellar space, and had wondered

why Nahum had called it so large the day before. It had shrunk, Nahum said as he pointed

out the big brownish mound above the ripped earth and charred grass near the archaic well-

sweep in his front yard; but the wise men answered that stones do not shrink. Its heat

lingered persistently, and Nahum declared it had glowed faintly in the night. The professors

tried it with a geologist‘s hammer and found it was oddly soft. It was, in truth, so soft as to be

almost plastic; and they gouged rather than chipped a specimen to take back to the college

for testing. They took it in an old pail borrowed from Nahum‘s kitchen, for even the small piece

refused to grow cool. On the trip back they stopped at Ammi‘s to rest, and seemed thoughtful

when Mrs. Pierce remarked that the fragment was growing smaller and burning the bottom of

the pail. Truly, it was not large, but perhaps they had taken less than they thought.

The day after that—all this was in June of ‘82—the professors had trooped out again in a

great excitement. As they passed Ammi‘s they told him what queer things the specimen had

done, and how it had faded wholly away when they put it in a glass beaker. The beaker had

gone, too, and the wise men talked of the strange stone‘s affinity for silicon. It had acted quite

unbelievably in that well-ordered laboratory; doing nothing at all and shewing no occluded

gases when heated on charcoal, being wholly negative in the borax bead, and soon proving

itself absolutely non-volatile at any producible temperature, including that of the oxy-hydrogen

blowpipe. On an anvil it appeared highly malleable, and in the dark its luminosity was very

marked. Stubbornly refusing to grow cool, it soon had the college in a state of real excitement;

and when upon heating before the spectroscope it displayed shining bands unlike any known

colours of the normal spectrum there was much breathless talk of new elements, bizarre

optical properties, and other things which puzzled men of science are wont to say when faced

by the unknown.

Hot as it was, they tested it in a crucible with all the proper reagents. Water did nothing.

Hydrochloric acid was the same. Nitric acid and even aqua regia merely hissed and spattered

against its torrid invulnerability. Ammi had difficulty in recalling all these things, but recognised

some solvents as I mentioned them in the usual order of use. There were ammonia and

caustic soda, alcohol and ether, nauseous carbon disulphide and a dozen others; but

although the weight grew steadily less as time passed, and the fragment seemed to be

slightly cooling, there was no change in the solvents to shew that they had attacked the

substance at all. It was a metal, though, beyond a doubt. It was magnetic, for one thing; and

after its immersion in the acid solvents there seemed to be faint traces of the Widmannstätten

figures found on meteoric iron. When the cooling had grown very considerable, the testing

was carried on in glass; and it was in a glass beaker that they left all the chips made of the

original fragment during the work. The next morning both chips and beaker were gone without

trace, and only a charred spot marked the place on the wooden shelf where they had been.

All this the professors told Ammi as they paused at his door, and once more he went with

them to see the stony messenger from the stars, though this time his wife did not accompany

him. It had now most certainly shrunk, and even the sober professors could not doubt the

truth of what they saw. All around the dwindling brown lump near the well was a vacant space,

except where the earth had caved in; and whereas it had been a good seven feet across the

day before, it was now scarcely five. It was still hot, and the sages studied its surface

curiously as they detached another and larger piece with hammer and chisel. They gouged

deeply this time, and as they pried away the smaller mass they saw that the core of the thing

was not quite homogeneous.

They had uncovered what seemed to be the side of a large coloured globule imbedded in the

substance. The colour, which resembled some of the bands in the meteor‘s strange spectrum,

was almost impossible to describe; and it was only by analogy that they called it colour at all.

Its texture was glossy, and upon tapping it appeared to promise both brittleness and

hollowness. One of the professors gave it a smart blow with a hammer, and it burst with a

nervous little pop. Nothing was emitted, and all trace of the thing vanished with the

puncturing. It left behind a hollow spherical space about three inches across, and all thought it

probable that others would be discovered as the enclosing substance wasted away.

Conjecture was vain; so after a futile attempt to find additional globules by drilling, the seekers

left again with their new specimen—which proved, however, as baffling in the laboratory as its

predecessor had been. Aside from being almost plastic, having heat, magnetism, and slight

luminosity, cooling slightly in powerful acids, possessing an unknown spectrum, wasting away

in air, and attacking silicon compounds with mutual destruction as a result, it presented no

identifying features whatsoever; and at the end of the tests the college scientists were forced

to own that they could not place it. It was nothing of this earth, but a piece of the great

outside; and as such dowered with outside properties and obedient to outside laws.

That night there was a thunderstorm, and when the professors went out to Nahum‘s the next

day they met with a bitter disappointment. The stone, magnetic as it had been, must have had

some peculiar electrical property; for it had ―drawn the lightning‖, as Nahum said, with a

singular persistence. Six times within an hour the farmer saw the lightning strike the furrow in

the front yard, and when the storm was over nothing remained but a ragged pit by the ancient

well-sweep, half-choked with caved-in earth. Digging had borne no fruit, and the scientists

verified the fact of the utter vanishment. The failure was total; so that nothing was left to do

but go back to the laboratory and test again the disappearing fragment left carefully cased in

lead. That fragment lasted a week, at the end of which nothing of value had been learned of

it. When it had gone, no residue was left behind, and in time the professors felt scarcely sure

they had indeed seen with waking eyes that cryptic vestige of the fathomless gulfs outside;

that lone, weird message from other universes and other realms of matter, force, and entity.

As was natural, the Arkham papers made much of the incident with its collegiate sponsoring,

and sent reporters to talk with Nahum Gardner and his family. At least one Boston daily also

sent a scribe, and Nahum quickly became a kind of local celebrity. He was a lean, genial

person of about fifty, living with his wife and three sons on the pleasant farmstead in the

valley. He and Ammi exchanged visits frequently, as did their wives; and Ammi had nothing

but praise for him after all these years. He seemed slightly proud of the notice his place had

attracted, and talked often of the meteorite in the succeeding weeks. That July and August

were hot, and Nahum worked hard at his haying in the ten-acre pasture across Chapman‘s

Brook; his rattling wain wearing deep ruts in the shadowy lanes between. The labour tired him

more than it had in other years, and he felt that age was beginning to tell on him.

Then fell the time of fruit and harvest. The pears and apples slowly ripened, and Nahum

vowed that his orchards were prospering as never before. The fruit was growing to

phenomenal size and unwonted gloss, and in such abundance that extra barrels were

ordered to handle the future crop. But with the ripening came sore disappointment; for of all

that gorgeous array of specious lusciousness not one single jot was fit to eat. Into the fine

flavour of the pears and apples had crept a stealthy bitterness and sickishness, so that even

the smallest of bites induced a lasting disgust. It was the same with the melons and tomatoes,

and Nahum sadly saw that his entire crop was lost. Quick to connect events, he declared that

the meteorite had poisoned the soil, and thanked heaven that most of the other crops were in

the upland lot along the road.

Winter came early, and was very cold. Ammi saw Nahum less often than usual, and observed

that he had begun to look worried. The rest of his family, too, seemed to have grown taciturn;

and were far from steady in their churchgoing or their attendance at the various social events

of the countryside. For this reserve or melancholy no cause could be found, though all the

household confessed now and then to poorer health and a feeling of vague disquiet. Nahum

himself gave the most definite statement of anyone when he said he was disturbed about

certain footprints in the snow. They were the usual winter prints of red squirrels, white rabbits,

and foxes, but the brooding farmer professed to see something not quite right about their

nature and arrangement. He was never specific, but appeared to think that they were not as

characteristic of the anatomy and habits of squirrels and rabbits and foxes as they ought to

be. Ammi listened without interest to this talk until one night when he drove past Nahum‘s

house in his sleigh on the way back from Clark‘s Corners. There had been a moon, and a

rabbit had run across the road, and the leaps of that rabbit were longer than either Ammi or

his horse liked. The latter, indeed, had almost run away when brought up by a firm rein.

Thereafter Ammi gave Nahum‘s tales more respect, and wondered why the Gardner dogs

seemed so cowed and quivering every morning. They had, it developed, nearly lost the spirit

to bark.

In February the McGregor boys from Meadow Hill were out shooting woodchucks, and not far

from the Gardner place bagged a very peculiar specimen. The proportions of its body seemed

slightly altered in a queer way impossible to describe, while its face had taken on an

expression which no one ever saw in a woodchuck before. The boys were genuinely

frightened, and threw the thing away at once, so that only their grotesque tales of it ever

reached the people of the countryside. But the shying of the horses near Nahum‘s house had

now become an acknowledged thing, and all the basis for a cycle of whispered legend was

fast taking form.

People vowed that the snow melted faster around Nahum‘s than it did anywhere else, and

early in March there was an awed discussion in Potter‘s general store at Clark‘s Corners.

Stephen Rice had driven past Gardner‘s in the morning, and had noticed the skunk-cabbages

coming up through the mud by the woods across the road. Never were things of such size

seen before, and they held strange colours that could not be put into any words. Their shapes

were monstrous, and the horse had snorted at an odour which struck Stephen as wholly

unprecedented. That afternoon several persons drove past to see the abnormal growth, and

all agreed that plants of that kind ought never to sprout in a healthy world. The bad fruit of the

fall before was freely mentioned, and it went from mouth to mouth that there was poison in

Nahum‘s ground. Of course it was the meteorite; and remembering how strange the men from

the college had found that stone to be, several farmers spoke about the matter to them.

One day they paid Nahum a visit; but having no love of wild tales and folklore were very

conservative in what they inferred. The plants were certainly odd, but all skunk-cabbages are

more or less odd in shape and odour and hue. Perhaps some mineral element from the stone

had entered the soil, but it would soon be washed away. And as for the footprints and

frightened horses—of course this was mere country talk which such a phenomenon as the

aërolite would be certain to start. There was really nothing for serious men to do in cases of

wild gossip, for superstitious rustics will say and believe anything. And so all through the

strange days the professors stayed away in contempt. Only one of them, when given two

phials of dust for analysis in a police job over a year and a half later, recalled that the queer

colour of that skunk-cabbage had been very like one of the anomalous bands of light shewn

by the meteor fragment in the college spectroscope, and like the brittle globule found

imbedded in the stone from the abyss. The samples in this analysis case gave the same odd

bands at first, though later they lost the property.

The trees budded prematurely around Nahum‘s, and at night they swayed ominously in the

wind. Nahum‘s second son Thaddeus, a lad of fifteen, swore that they swayed also when

there was no wind; but even the gossips would not credit this. Certainly, however,

restlessness was in the air. The entire Gardner family developed the habit of stealthy

listening, though not for any sound which they could consciously name. The listening was,

indeed, rather a product of moments when consciousness seemed half to slip away.

Unfortunately such moments increased week by week, till it became common speech that

―something was wrong with all Nahum‘s folks‖. When the early saxifrage came out it had

another strange colour; not quite like that of the skunk-cabbage, but plainly related and

equally unknown to anyone who saw it. Nahum took some blossoms to Arkham and shewed

them to the editor of the Gazette, but that dignitary did no more than write a humorous article

about them, in which the dark fears of rustics were held up to polite ridicule. It was a mistake

of Nahum‘s to tell a stolid city man about the way the great, overgrown mourning-cloak

butterflies behaved in connexion with these saxifrages.

April brought a kind of madness to the country folk, and began that disuse of the road past

Nahum‘s which led to its ultimate abandonment. It was the vegetation. All the orchard trees

blossomed forth in strange colours, and through the stony soil of the yard and adjacent

pasturage there sprang up a bizarre growth which only a botanist could connect with the

proper flora of the region. No sane wholesome colours were anywhere to be seen except in

the green grass and leafage; but everywhere those hectic and prismatic variants of some

diseased, underlying primary tone without a place among the known tints of earth. The

Dutchman‘s breeches became a thing of sinister menace, and the bloodroots grew insolent in

their chromatic perversion. Ammi and the Gardners thought that most of the colours had a

sort of haunting familiarity, and decided that they reminded one of the brittle globule in the

meteor. Nahum ploughed and sowed the ten-acre pasture and the upland lot, but did nothing

with the land around the house. He knew it would be of no use, and hoped that the summer‘s

strange growths would draw all the poison from the soil. He was prepared for almost anything

now, and had grown used to the sense of something near him waiting to be heard. The

shunning of his house by neighbours told on him, of course; but it told on his wife more. The

boys were better off, being at school each day; but they could not help being frightened by the

gossip. Thaddeus, an especially sensitive youth, suffered the most.

In May the insects came, and Nahum‘s place became a nightmare of buzzing and crawling.

Most of the creatures seemed not quite usual in their aspects and motions, and their

nocturnal habits contradicted all former experience. The Gardners took to watching at night—

watching in all directions at random for something . . . they could not tell what. It was then that

they all owned that Thaddeus had been right about the trees. Mrs. Gardner was the next to

see it from the window as she watched the swollen boughs of a maple against a moonlit sky.

The boughs surely moved, and there was no wind. It must be the sap. Strangeness had come

into everything growing now. Yet it was none of Nahum‘s family at all who made the next

discovery. Familiarity had dulled them, and what they could not see was glimpsed by a timid

windmill salesman from Bolton who drove by one night in ignorance of the country legends.

What he told in Arkham was given a short paragraph in the Gazette; and it was there that all

the farmers, Nahum included, saw it first. The night had been dark and the buggy-lamps faint,

but around a farm in the valley which everyone knew from the account must be Nahum‘s the

darkness had been less thick. A dim though distinct luminosity seemed to inhere in all the

vegetation, grass, leaves, and blossoms alike, while at one moment a detached piece of the

phosphorescence appeared to stir furtively in the yard near the barn.

The grass had so far seemed untouched, and the cows were freely pastured in the lot near

the house, but toward the end of May the milk began to be bad. Then Nahum had the cows

driven to the uplands, after which the trouble ceased. Not long after this the change in grass

and leaves became apparent to the eye. All the verdure was going grey, and was developing

a highly singular quality of brittleness. Ammi was now the only person who ever visited the

place, and his visits were becoming fewer and fewer. When school closed the Gardners were

virtually cut off from the world, and sometimes let Ammi do their errands in town. They were

failing curiously both physically and mentally, and no one was surprised when the news of

Mrs. Gardner‘s madness stole around.

It happened in June, about the anniversary of the meteor‘s fall, and the poor woman

screamed about things in the air which she could not describe. In her raving there was not a

single specific noun, but only verbs and pronouns. Things moved and changed and fluttered,

and ears tingled to impulses which were not wholly sounds. Something was taken away—she

was being drained of something—something was fastening itself on her that ought not to be—

someone must make it keep off—nothing was ever still in the night—the walls and windows

shifted. Nahum did not send her to the county asylum, but let her wander about the house as

long as she was harmless to herself and others. Even when her expression changed he did

nothing. But when the boys grew afraid of her, and Thaddeus nearly fainted at the way she

made faces at him, he decided to keep her locked in the attic. By July she had ceased to

speak and crawled on all fours, and before that month was over Nahum got the mad notion

that she was slightly luminous in the dark, as he now clearly saw was the case with the

nearby vegetation.

It was a little before this that the horses had stampeded. Something had aroused them in the

night, and their neighing and kicking in their stalls had been terrible. There seemed virtually

nothing to do to calm them, and when Nahum opened the stable door they all bolted out like

frightened woodland deer. It took a week to track all four, and when found they were seen to

be quite useless and unmanageable. Something had snapped in their brains, and each one

had to be shot for its own good. Nahum borrowed a horse from Ammi for his haying, but found

it would not approach the barn. It shied, balked, and whinnied, and in the end he could do

nothing but drive it into the yard while the men used their own strength to get the heavy

wagon near enough the hayloft for convenient pitching. And all the while the vegetation was

turning grey and brittle. Even the flowers whose hues had been so strange were greying now,

and the fruit was coming out grey and dwarfed and tasteless. The asters and goldenrod

bloomed grey and distorted, and the roses and zinneas and hollyhocks in the front yard were

such blasphemous-looking things that Nahum‘s oldest boy Zenas cut them down. The

strangely puffed insects died about that time, even the bees that had left their hives and taken

to the woods.

By September all the vegetation was fast crumbling to a greyish powder, and Nahum feared

that the trees would die before the poison was out of the soil. His wife now had spells of

terrific screaming, and he and the boys were in a constant state of nervous tension. They

shunned people now, and when school opened the boys did not go. But it was Ammi, on one

of his rare visits, who first realised that the well water was no longer good. It had an evil taste

that was not exactly foetid nor exactly salty, and Ammi advised his friend to dig another well

on higher ground to use till the soil was good again. Nahum, however, ignored the warning,

for he had by that time become calloused to strange and unpleasant things. He and the boys

continued to use the tainted supply, drinking it as listlessly and mechanically as they ate their

meagre and ill-cooked meals and did their thankless and monotonous chores through the

aimless days. There was something of stolid resignation about them all, as if they walked half

in another world between lines of nameless guards to a certain and familiar doom.

Thaddeus went mad in September after a visit to the well. He had gone with a pail and had

come back empty-handed, shrieking and waving his arms, and sometimes lapsing into an

inane titter or a whisper about ―the moving colours down there‖. Two in one family was pretty

bad, but Nahum was very brave about it. He let the boy run about for a week until he began

stumbling and hurting himself, and then he shut him in an attic room across the hall from his

mother‘s. The way they screamed at each other from behind their locked doors was very

terrible, especially to little Merwin, who fancied they talked in some terrible language that was

not of earth. Merwin was getting frightfully imaginative, and his restlessness was worse after

the shutting away of the brother who had been his greatest playmate.

Almost at the same time the mortality among the livestock commenced. Poultry turned

greyish and died very quickly, their meat being found dry and noisome upon cutting. Hogs

grew inordinately fat, then suddenly began to undergo loathsome changes which no one

could explain. Their meat was of course useless, and Nahum was at his wit‘s end. No rural

veterinary would approach his place, and the city veterinary from Arkham was openly baffled.

The swine began growing grey and brittle and falling to pieces before they died, and their

eyes and muzzles developed singular alterations. It was very inexplicable, for they had never

been fed from the tainted vegetation. Then something struck the cows. Certain areas or

sometimes the whole body would be uncannily shrivelled or compressed, and atrocious

collapses or disintegrations were common. In the last stages—and death was always the

result—there would be a greying and turning brittle like that which beset the hogs. There

could be no question of poison, for all the cases occurred in a locked and undisturbed barn.

No bites of prowling things could have brought the virus, for what live beast of earth can pass

through solid obstacles? It must be only natural disease—yet what disease could wreak such

results was beyond any mind‘s guessing. When the harvest came there was not an animal

surviving on the place, for the stock and poultry were dead and the dogs had run away. These

dogs, three in number, had all vanished one night and were never heard of again. The five

cats had left some time before, but their going was scarcely noticed since there now seemed

to be no mice, and only Mrs. Gardner had made pets of the graceful felines.

On the nineteenth of October Nahum staggered into Ammi‘s house with hideous news. The

death had come to poor Thaddeus in his attic room, and it had come in a way which could not

be told. Nahum had dug a grave in the railed family plot behind the farm, and had put therein

what he found. There could have been nothing from outside, for the small barred window and

locked door were intact; but it was much as it had been in the barn. Ammi and his wife

consoled the stricken man as best they could, but shuddered as they did so. Stark terror

seemed to cling round the Gardners and all they touched, and the very presence of one in the

house was a breath from regions unnamed and unnamable. Ammi accompanied Nahum

home with the greatest reluctance, and did what he might to calm the hysterical sobbing of

little Merwin. Zenas needed no calming. He had come of late to do nothing but stare into

space and obey what his father told him; and Ammi thought that his fate was very merciful.

Now and then Merwin‘s screams were answered faintly from the attic, and in response to an

inquiring look Nahum said that his wife was getting very feeble. When night approached,

Ammi managed to get away; for not even friendship could make him stay in that spot when

the faint glow of the vegetation began and the trees may or may not have swayed without

wind. It was really lucky for Ammi that he was not more imaginative. Even as things were, his

mind was bent ever so slightly; but had he been able to connect and reflect upon all the

portents around him he must inevitably have turned a total maniac. In the twilight he hastened

home, the screams of the mad woman and the nervous child ringing horribly in his ears.

Three days later Nahum lurched into Ammi‘s kitchen in the early morning, and in the absence

of his host stammered out a desperate tale once more, while Mrs. Pierce listened in a

clutching fright. It was little Merwin this time. He was gone. He had gone out late at night with

a lantern and pail for water, and had never come back. He‘d been going to pieces for days,

and hardly knew what he was about. Screamed at everything. There had been a frantic shriek

from the yard then, but before the father could get to the door, the boy was gone. There was

no glow from the lantern he had taken, and of the child himself no trace. At the time Nahum

thought the lantern and pail were gone too; but when dawn came, and the man had plodded

back from his all-night search of the woods and fields, he had found some very curious things

near the well. There was a crushed and apparently somewhat melted mass of iron which had

certainly been the lantern; while a bent bail and twisted iron hoops beside it, both half-fused,

seemed to hint at the remnants of the pail. That was all. Nahum was past imagining, Mrs.

Pierce was blank, and Ammi, when he had reached home and heard the tale, could give no

guess. Merwin was gone, and there would be no use in telling the people around, who

shunned all Gardners now. No use, either, in telling the city people at Arkham who laughed at

everything. Thad was gone, and now Merwin was gone. Something was creeping and

creeping and waiting to be seen and felt and heard. Nahum would go soon, and he wanted

Ammi to look after his wife and Zenas if they survived him. It must all be a judgment of some

sort; though he could not fancy what for, since he had always walked uprightly in the Lord‘s

ways so far as he knew.

For over two weeks Ammi saw nothing of Nahum; and then, worried about what might have

happened, he overcame his fears and paid the Gardner place a visit. There was no smoke

from the great chimney, and for a moment the visitor was apprehensive of the worst. The

aspect of the whole farm was shocking—greyish withered grass and leaves on the ground,

vines falling in brittle wreckage from archaic walls and gables, and great bare trees clawing

up at the grey November sky with a studied malevolence which Ammi could not but feel had

come from some subtle change in the tilt of the branches. But Nahum was alive, after all. He

was weak, and lying on a couch in the low-ceiled kitchen, but perfectly conscious and able to

give simple orders to Zenas. The room was deadly cold; and as Ammi visibly shivered, the

host shouted huskily to Zenas for more wood. Wood, indeed, was sorely needed; since the

cavernous fireplace was unlit and empty, with a cloud of soot blowing about in the chill wind

that came down the chimney. Presently Nahum asked him if the extra wood had made him

any more comfortable, and then Ammi saw what had happened. The stoutest cord had broken

at last, and the hapless farmer‘s mind was proof against more sorrow.

Questioning tactfully, Ammi could get no clear data at all about the missing Zenas. ―In the

well—he lives in the well—‖ was all that the clouded father would say. Then there flashed

across the visitor‘s mind a sudden thought of the mad wife, and he changed his line of inquiry.

―Nabby? Why, here she is!‖ was the surprised response of poor Nahum, and Ammi soon saw

that he must search for himself. Leaving the harmless babbler on the couch, he took the keys

from their nail beside the door and climbed the creaking stairs to the attic. It was very close

and noisome up there, and no sound could be heard from any direction. Of the four doors in

sight, only one was locked, and on this he tried various keys on the ring he had taken. The

third key proved the right one, and after some fumbling Ammi threw open the low white door.

It was quite dark inside, for the window was small and half-obscured by the crude wooden

bars; and Ammi could see nothing at all on the wide-planked floor. The stench was beyond

enduring, and before proceeding further he had to retreat to another room and return with his

lungs filled with breathable air. When he did enter he saw something dark in the corner, and

upon seeing it more clearly he screamed outright. While he screamed he thought a

momentary cloud eclipsed the window, and a second later he felt himself brushed as if by

some hateful current of vapour. Strange colours danced before his eyes; and had not a

present horror numbed him he would have thought of the globule in the meteor that the

geologist‘s hammer had shattered, and of the morbid vegetation that had sprouted in the

spring. As it was he thought only of the blasphemous monstrosity which confronted him, and

which all too clearly had shared the nameless fate of young Thaddeus and the livestock. But

the terrible thing about this horror was that it very slowly and perceptibly moved as it

continued to crumble.

Ammi would give me no added particulars to this scene, but the shape in the corner does not

reappear in his tale as a moving object. There are things which cannot be mentioned, and

what is done in common humanity is sometimes cruelly judged by the law. I gathered that no

moving thing was left in that attic room, and that to leave anything capable of motion there

would have been a deed so monstrous as to damn any accountable being to eternal torment.

Anyone but a stolid farmer would have fainted or gone mad, but Ammi walked conscious

through that low doorway and locked the accursed secret behind him. There would be Nahum

to deal with now; he must be fed and tended, and removed to some place where he could be

cared for.

Commencing his descent of the dark stairs, Ammi heard a thud below him. He even thought a

scream had been suddenly choked off, and recalled nervously the clammy vapour which had

brushed by him in that frightful room above. What presence had his cry and entry started up?

Halted by some vague fear, he heard still further sounds below. Indubitably there was a sort of

heavy dragging, and a most detestably sticky noise as of some fiendish and unclean species

of suction. With an associative sense goaded to feverish heights, he thought unaccountably of

what he had seen upstairs. Good God! What eldritch dream-world was this into which he had

blundered? He dared move neither backward nor forward, but stood there trembling at the

black curve of the boxed-in staircase. Every trifle of the scene burned itself into his brain. The

sounds, the sense of dread expectancy, the darkness, the steepness of the narrow steps—

and merciful heaven! . . . the faint but unmistakable luminosity of all the woodwork in sight;

steps, sides, exposed laths, and beams alike!

Then there burst forth a frantic whinny from Ammi‘s horse outside, followed at once by a

clatter which told of a frenzied runaway. In another moment horse and buggy had gone

beyond earshot, leaving the frightened man on the dark stairs to guess what had sent them.

But that was not all. There had been another sound out there. A sort of liquid splash—water—

it must have been the well. He had left Hero untied near it, and a buggy-wheel must have

brushed the coping and knocked in a stone. And still the pale phosphorescence glowed in that

detestably ancient woodwork. God! how old the house was! Most of it built before 1670, and

the gambrel roof not later than 1730.

A feeble scratching on the floor downstairs now sounded distinctly, and Ammi‘s grip tightened

on a heavy stick he had picked up in the attic for some purpose. Slowly nerving himself, he

finished his descent and walked boldly toward the kitchen. But he did not complete the walk,

because what he sought was no longer there. It had come to meet him, and it was still alive

after a fashion. Whether it had crawled or whether it had been dragged by any external force,

Ammi could not say; but the death had been at it. Everything had happened in the last half-

hour, but collapse, greying, and disintegration were already far advanced. There was a

horrible brittleness, and dry fragments were scaling off. Ammi could not touch it, but looked

horrifiedly into the distorted parody that had been a face. ―What was it, Nahum—what was it?‖

he whispered, and the cleft, bulging lips were just able to crackle out a final answer.

―Nothin‘ . . . nothin‘ . . . the colour . . . it burns . . . cold an‘ wet . . . but it burns . . . it lived in the

well . . . I seen it . . . a kind o‘ smoke . . . jest like the flowers last spring . . . the well shone at

night . . . Thad an‘ Mernie an‘ Zenas . . . everything alive . . . suckin‘ the life out of everything .

. . in that stone . . . it must a‘ come in that stone . . . pizened the whole place . . . dun‘t know

what it wants . . . that round thing them men from the college dug outen the stone . . . they

smashed it . . . it was that same colour . . . jest the same, like the flowers an‘ plants . . . must

a‘ ben more of ‘em . . . seeds . . . seeds . . . they growed . . . I seen it the fust time this week .

. . must a‘ got strong on Zenas . . . he was a big boy, full o‘ life . . . it beats down your mind an‘

then gits ye . . . burns ye up . . . in the well water . . . you was right about that . . . evil water . .

. Zenas never come back from the well . . . can‘t git away . . . draws ye . . . ye know summ‘at‘s

comin‘, but ‘tain‘t no use . . . I seen it time an‘ agin senct Zenas was took . . . whar‘s Nabby,

Ammi? . . . my head‘s no good . . . dun‘t know how long senct I fed her . . . it‘ll git her ef we

ain‘t keerful . . . jest a colour . . . her face is gettin‘ to hev that colour sometimes towards night

. . . an‘ it burns an‘ sucks . . . it come from some place whar things ain‘t as they is here . . .

one o‘ them professors said so . . . he was right . . . look out, Ammi, it‘ll do suthin‘ more . . .

sucks the life out. . . .‖

But that was all. That which spoke could speak no more because it had completely caved in.

Ammi laid a red checked tablecloth over what was left and reeled out the back door into the

fields. He climbed the slope to the ten-acre pasture and stumbled home by the north road and

the woods. He could not pass that well from which his horse had run away. He had looked at

it through the window, and had seen that no stone was missing from the rim. Then the

lurching buggy had not dislodged anything after all—the splash had been something else—

something which went into the well after it had done with poor Nahum. . . .

When Ammi reached his house the horse and buggy had arrived before him and thrown his

wife into fits of anxiety. Reassuring her without explanations, he set out at once for Arkham

and notified the authorities that the Gardner family was no more. He indulged in no details,

but merely told of the deaths of Nahum and Nabby, that of Thaddeus being already known,

and mentioned that the cause seemed to be the same strange ailment which had killed the

livestock. He also stated that Merwin and Zenas had disappeared. There was considerable

questioning at the police station, and in the end Ammi was compelled to take three officers to

the Gardner farm, together with the coroner, the medical examiner, and the veterinary who

had treated the diseased animals. He went much against his will, for the afternoon was

advancing and he feared the fall of night over that accursed place, but it was some comfort to

have so many people with him.

The six men drove out in a democrat-wagon, following Ammi‘s buggy, and arrived at the pest-

ridden farmhouse about four o‘clock. Used as the officers were to gruesome experiences, not

one remained unmoved at what was found in the attic and under the red checked tablecloth

on the floor below. The whole aspect of the farm with its grey desolation was terrible enough,

but those two crumbling objects were beyond all bounds. No one could look long at them, and

even the medical examiner admitted that there was very little to examine. Specimens could be

analysed, of course, so he busied himself in obtaining them—and here it develops that a very

puzzling aftermath occurred at the college laboratory where the two phials of dust were finally

taken. Under the spectroscope both samples gave off an unknown spectrum, in which many

of the baffling bands were precisely like those which the strange meteor had yielded in the

previous year. The property of emitting this spectrum vanished in a month, the dust thereafter

consisting mainly of alkaline phosphates and carbonates.

Ammi would not have told the men about the well if he had thought they meant to do anything

then and there. It was getting toward sunset, and he was anxious to be away. But he could

not help glancing nervously at the stony curb by the great sweep, and when a detective

questioned him he admitted that Nahum had feared something down there—so much so that

he had never even thought of searching it for Merwin or Zenas. After that nothing would do

but that they empty and explore the well immediately, so Ammi had to wait trembling while pail

after pail of rank water was hauled up and splashed on the soaking ground outside. The men

sniffed in disgust at the fluid, and toward the last held their noses against the foetor they were

uncovering. It was not so long a job as they had feared it would be, since the water was

phenomenally low. There is no need to speak too exactly of what they found. Merwin and

Zenas were both there, in part, though the vestiges were mainly skeletal. There were also a

small deer and a large dog in about the same state, and a number of bones of smaller

animals. The ooze and slime at the bottom seemed inexplicably porous and bubbling, and a

man who descended on hand-holds with a long pole found that he could sink the wooden

shaft to any depth in the mud of the floor without meeting any solid obstruction.

Twilight had now fallen, and lanterns were brought from the house. Then, when it was seen

that nothing further could be gained from the well, everyone went indoors and conferred in the

ancient sitting-room while the intermittent light of a spectral half-moon played wanly on the

grey desolation outside. The men were frankly nonplussed by the entire case, and could find

no convincing common element to link the strange vegetable conditions, the unknown

disease of livestock and humans, and the unaccountable deaths of Merwin and Zenas in the

tainted well. They had heard the common country talk, it is true; but could not believe that

anything contrary to natural law had occurred. No doubt the meteor had poisoned the soil, but

the illness of persons and animals who had eaten nothing grown in that soil was another

matter. Was it the well water? Very possibly. It might be a good idea to analyse it. But what

peculiar madness could have made both boys jump into the well? Their deeds were so

similar—and the fragments shewed that they had both suffered from the grey brittle death.

Why was everything so grey and brittle?

It was the coroner, seated near a window overlooking the yard, who first noticed the glow

about the well. Night had fully set in, and all the abhorrent grounds seemed faintly luminous

with more than the fitful moonbeams; but this new glow was something definite and distinct,

and appeared to shoot up from the black pit like a softened ray from a searchlight, giving dull

reflections in the little ground pools where the water had been emptied. It had a very queer

colour, and as all the men clustered round the window Ammi gave a violent start. For this

strange beam of ghastly miasma was to him of no unfamiliar hue. He had seen that colour

before, and feared to think what it might mean. He had seen it in the nasty brittle globule in

that aërolite two summers ago, had seen it in the crazy vegetation of the springtime, and had

thought he had seen it for an instant that very morning against the small barred window of

that terrible attic room where nameless things had happened. It had flashed there a second,

and a clammy and hateful current of vapour had brushed past him—and then poor Nahum

had been taken by something of that colour. He had said so at the last—said it was the

globule and the plants. After that had come the runaway in the yard and the splash in the

well—and now that well was belching forth to the night a pale insidious beam of the same

daemoniac tint.

It does credit to the alertness of Ammi‘s mind that he puzzled even at that tense moment over

a point which was essentially scientific. He could not but wonder at his gleaning of the same

impression from a vapour glimpsed in the daytime, against a window opening on the morning

sky, and from a nocturnal exhalation seen as a phosphorescent mist against the black and

blasted landscape. It wasn‘t right—it was against Nature—and he thought of those terrible last

words of his stricken friend, ―It come from some place whar things ain‘t as they is here . . .

one o‘ them professors said so. . . .‖

All three horses outside, tied to a pair of shrivelled saplings by the road, were now neighing

and pawing frantically. The wagon driver started for the door to do something, but Ammi laid a

shaky hand on his shoulder. ―Dun‘t go out thar,‖ he whispered. ―They‘s more to this nor what

we know. Nahum said somethin‘ lived in the well that sucks your life out. He said it must be

some‘at growed from a round ball like one we all seen in the meteor stone that fell a year ago

June. Sucks an‘ burns, he said, an‘ is jest a cloud of colour like that light out thar now, that ye

can hardly see an‘ can‘t tell what it is. Nahum thought it feeds on everything livin‘ an‘ gits

stronger all the time. He said he seen it this last week. It must be somethin‘ from away off in

the sky like the men from the college last year says the meteor stone was. The way it‘s made

an‘ the way it works ain‘t like no way o‘ God‘s world. It‘s some‘at from beyond.‖

So the men paused indecisively as the light from the well grew stronger and the hitched

horses pawed and whinnied in increasing frenzy. It was truly an awful moment; with terror in

that ancient and accursed house itself, four monstrous sets of fragments—two from the house

and two from the well—in the woodshed behind, and that shaft of unknown and unholy

iridescence from the slimy depths in front. Ammi had restrained the driver on impulse,

forgetting how uninjured he himself was after the clammy brushing of that coloured vapour in

the attic room, but perhaps it is just as well that he acted as he did. No one will ever know

what was abroad that night; and though the blasphemy from beyond had not so far hurt any

human of unweakened mind, there is no telling what it might not have done at that last

moment, and with its seemingly increased strength and the special signs of purpose it was

soon to display beneath the half-clouded moonlit sky.

All at once one of the detectives at the window gave a short, sharp gasp. The others looked at

him, and then quickly followed his own gaze upward to the point at which its idle straying had

been suddenly arrested. There was no need for words. What had been disputed in country

gossip was disputable no longer, and it is because of the thing which every man of that party

agreed in whispering later on that the strange days are never talked about in Arkham. It is

necessary to premise that there was no wind at that hour of the evening. One did arise not

long afterward, but there was absolutely none then. Even the dry tips of the lingering hedge-

mustard, grey and blighted, and the fringe on the roof of the standing democrat-wagon were

unstirred. And yet amid that tense, godless calm the high bare boughs of all the trees in the

yard were moving. They were twitching morbidly and spasmodically, clawing in convulsive

and epileptic madness at the moonlit clouds; scratching impotently in the noxious air as if

jerked by some alien and bodiless line of linkage with subterrene horrors writhing and

struggling below the black roots.

Not a man breathed for several seconds. Then a cloud of darker depth passed over the moon,

and the silhouette of clutching branches faded out momentarily. At this there was a general

cry; muffled with awe, but husky and almost identical from every throat. For the terror had not

faded with the silhouette, and in a fearsome instant of deeper darkness the watchers saw

wriggling at that treetop height a thousand tiny points of faint and unhallowed radiance,

tipping each bough like the fire of St. Elmo or the flames that came down on the apostles‘

heads at Pentecost. It was a monstrous constellation of unnatural light, like a glutted swarm of

corpse-fed fireflies dancing hellish sarabands over an accursed marsh; and its colour was that

same nameless intrusion which Ammi had come to recognise and dread. All the while the

shaft of phosphorescence from the well was getting brighter and brighter, bringing to the

minds of the huddled men a sense of doom and abnormality which far outraced any image

their conscious minds could form. It was no longer shining out, it was pouring out; and as the

shapeless stream of unplaceable colour left the well it seemed to flow directly into the sky.

The veterinary shivered, and walked to the front door to drop the heavy extra bar across it.

Ammi shook no less, and had to tug and point for lack of a controllable voice when he wished

to draw notice to the growing luminosity of the trees. The neighing and stamping of the horses

had become utterly frightful, but not a soul of that group in the old house would have ventured

forth for any earthly reward. With the moments the shining of the trees increased, while their

restless branches seemed to strain more and more toward verticality. The wood of the well-

sweep was shining now, and presently a policeman dumbly pointed to some wooden sheds

and bee-hives near the stone wall on the west. They were commencing to shine, too, though

the tethered vehicles of the visitors seemed so far unaffected. Then there was a wild

commotion and clopping in the road, and as Ammi quenched the lamp for better seeing they

realised that the span of frantic greys had broke their sapling and run off with the democrat-

wagon.

The shock served to loosen several tongues, and embarrassed whispers were exchanged. ―It

spreads on everything organic that‘s been around here,‖ muttered the medical examiner. No

one replied, but the man who had been in the well gave a hint that his long pole must have

stirred up something intangible. ―It was awful,‖ he added. ―There was no bottom at all. Just

ooze and bubbles and the feeling of something lurking under there.‖ Ammi‘s horse still pawed

and screamed deafeningly in the road outside, and nearly drowned its owner‘s faint quaver as

he mumbled his formless reflections. ―It come from that stone . . . it growed down thar . . . it

got everything livin‘ . . . it fed itself on ‘em, mind and body . . . Thad an‘ Mernie, Zenas an‘

Nabby . . . Nahum was the last . . . they all drunk the water . . . it got strong on ‘em . . . it come

from beyond, whar things ain‘t like they be here . . . now it‘s goin‘ home. . . .‖

At this point, as the column of unknown colour flared suddenly stronger and began to weave

itself into fantastic suggestions of shape which each spectator later described differently, there

came from poor tethered Hero such a sound as no man before or since ever heard from a

horse. Every person in that low-pitched sitting room stopped his ears, and Ammi turned away

from the window in horror and nausea. Words could not convey it—when Ammi looked out

again the hapless beast lay huddled inert on the moonlit ground between the splintered shafts

of the buggy. That was the last of Hero till they buried him next day. But the present was no

time to mourn, for almost at this instant a detective silently called attention to something

terrible in the very room with them. In the absence of the lamplight it was clear that a faint

phosphorescence had begun to pervade the entire apartment. It glowed on the broad-planked

floor and the fragment of rag carpet, and shimmered over the sashes of the small-paned

windows. It ran up and down the exposed corner-posts, coruscated about the shelf and

mantel, and infected the very doors and furniture. Each minute saw it strengthen, and at last it

was very plain that healthy living things must leave that house.

Ammi shewed them the back door and the path up through the fields to the ten-acre pasture.

They walked and stumbled as in a dream, and did not dare look back till they were far away

on the high ground. They were glad of the path, for they could not have gone the front way, by

that well. It was bad enough passing the glowing barn and sheds, and those shining orchard

trees with their gnarled, fiendish contours; but thank heaven the branches did their worst

twisting high up. The moon went under some very black clouds as they crossed the rustic

bridge over Chapman‘s Brook, and it was blind groping from there to the open meadows.

When they looked back toward the valley and the distant Gardner place at the bottom they

saw a fearsome sight. All the farm was shining with the hideous unknown blend of colour;

trees, buildings, and even such grass and herbage as had not been wholly changed to lethal

grey brittleness. The boughs were all straining skyward, tipped with tongues of foul flame, and

lambent tricklings of the same monstrous fire were creeping about the ridgepoles of the

house, barn, and sheds. It was a scene from a vision of Fuseli, and over all the rest reigned

that riot of luminous amorphousness, that alien and undimensioned rainbow of cryptic poison

from the well—seething, feeling, lapping, reaching, scintillating, straining, and malignly

bubbling in its cosmic and unrecognisable chromaticism.

Then without warning the hideous thing shot vertically up toward the sky like a rocket or

meteor, leaving behind no trail and disappearing through a round and curiously regular hole in

the clouds before any man could gasp or cry out. No watcher can ever forget that sight, and

Ammi stared blankly at the stars of Cygnus, Deneb twinkling above the others, where the

unknown colour had melted into the Milky Way. But his gaze was the next moment called

swiftly to earth by the crackling in the valley. It was just that. Only a wooden ripping and

crackling, and not an explosion, as so many others of the party vowed. Yet the outcome was

the same, for in one feverish, kaleidoscopic instant there burst up from that doomed and

accursed farm a gleamingly eruptive cataclysm of unnatural sparks and substance; blurring

the glance of the few who saw it, and sending forth to the zenith a bombarding cloudburst of

such coloured and fantastic fragments as our universe must needs disown. Through quickly

re-closing vapours they followed the great morbidity that had vanished, and in another second

they had vanished too. Behind and below was only a darkness to which the men dared not

return, and all about was a mounting wind which seemed to sweep down in black, frore gusts

from interstellar space. It shrieked and howled, and lashed the fields and distorted woods in a

mad cosmic frenzy, till soon the trembling party realised it would be no use waiting for the

moon to shew what was left down there at Nahum‘s.

Too awed even to hint theories, the seven shaking men trudged back toward Arkham by the

north road. Ammi was worse than his fellows, and begged them to see him inside his own

kitchen, instead of keeping straight on to town. He did not wish to cross the nighted, wind-

whipped woods alone to his home on the main road. For he had had an added shock that the

others were spared, and was crushed forever with a brooding fear he dared not even mention

for many years to come. As the rest of the watchers on that tempestuous hill had stolidly set

their faces toward the road, Ammi had looked back an instant at the shadowed valley of

desolation so lately sheltering his ill-starred friend. And from that stricken, far-away spot he

had seen something feebly rise, only to sink down again upon the place from which the great

shapeless horror had shot into the sky. It was just a colour—but not any colour of our earth or

heavens. And because Ammi recognised that colour, and knew that this last faint remnant

must still lurk down there in the well, he has never been quite right since.

Ammi would never go near the place again. It is over half a century now since the horror

happened, but he has never been there, and will be glad when the new reservoir blots it out. I

shall be glad, too, for I do not like the way the sunlight changed colour around the mouth of

that abandoned well I passed. I hope the water will always be very deep—but even so, I shall

never drink it. I do not think I shall visit the Arkham country hereafter. Three of the men who

had been with Ammi returned the next morning to see the ruins by daylight, but there were not

any real ruins. Only the bricks of the chimney, the stones of the cellar, some mineral and

metallic litter here and there, and the rim of that nefandous well. Save for Ammi‘s dead horse,

which they towed away and buried, and the buggy which they shortly returned to him,

everything that had ever been living had gone. Five eldritch acres of dusty grey desert

remained, nor has anything ever grown there since. To this day it sprawls open to the sky like

a great spot eaten by acid in the woods and fields, and the few who have ever dared glimpse

it in spite of the rural tales have named it ―the blasted heath‖.

The rural tales are queer. They might be even queerer if city men and college chemists could

be interested enough to analyse the water from that disused well, or the grey dust that no

wind seems ever to disperse. Botanists, too, ought to study the stunted flora on the borders of

that spot, for they might shed light on the country notion that the blight is spreading—little by

little, perhaps an inch a year. People say the colour of the neighbouring herbage is not quite

right in the spring, and that wild things leave queer prints in the light winter snow. Snow never

seems quite so heavy on the blasted heath as it is elsewhere. Horses—the few that are left in

this motor age—grow skittish in the silent valley; and hunters cannot depend on their dogs too

near the splotch of greyish dust.

They say the mental influences are very bad, too. Numbers went queer in the years after

Nahum‘s taking, and always they lacked the power to get away. Then the stronger-minded

folk all left the region, and only the foreigners tried to live in the crumbling old homesteads.

They could not stay, though; and one sometimes wonders what insight beyond ours their wild,

weird stores of whispered magic have given them. Their dreams at night, they protest, are

very horrible in that grotesque country; and surely the very look of the dark realm is enough to

stir a morbid fancy. No traveller has ever escaped a sense of strangeness in those deep

ravines, and artists shiver as they paint thick woods whose mystery is as much of the spirit as

of the eye. I myself am curious about the sensation I derived from my one lone walk before

Ammi told me his tale. When twilight came I had vaguely wished some clouds would gather,

for an odd timidity about the deep skyey voids above had crept into my soul.

Do not ask me for my opinion. I do not know—that is all. There was no one but Ammi to

question; for Arkham people will not talk about the strange days, and all three professors who

saw the aërolite and its coloured globule are dead. There were other globules—depend upon

that. One must have fed itself and escaped, and probably there was another which was too

late. No doubt it is still down the well—I know there was something wrong with the sunlight I

saw above that miasmal brink. The rustics say the blight creeps an inch a year, so perhaps

there is a kind of growth or nourishment even now. But whatever daemon hatchling is there, it

must be tethered to something or else it would quickly spread. Is it fastened to the roots of

those trees that claw the air? One of the current Arkham tales is about fat oaks that shine and

move as they ought not to do at night.

What it is, only God knows. In terms of matter I suppose the thing Ammi described would be

called a gas, but this gas obeyed laws that are not of our cosmos. This was no fruit of such

worlds and suns as shine on the telescopes and photographic plates of our observatories.

This was no breath from the skies whose motions and dimensions our astronomers measure

or deem too vast to measure. It was just a colour out of space—a frightful messenger from

unformed realms of infinity beyond all Nature as we know it; from realms whose mere

existence stuns the brain and numbs us with the black extra-cosmic gulfs it throws open

before our frenzied eyes.

I doubt very much if Ammi consciously lied to me, and I do not think his tale was all a freak of

madness as the townfolk had forewarned. Something terrible came to the hills and valleys on

that meteor, and something terrible—though I know not in what proportion—still remains. I

shall be glad to see the water come. Meanwhile I hope nothing will happen to Ammi. He saw

so much of the thing—and its influence was so insidious. Why has he never been able to

move away? How clearly he recalled those dying words of Nahum‘s—―can‘t git away . . .

draws ye . . . ye know summ‘at‘s comin‘, but ‘tain‘t no use. . . .‖ Ammi is such a good old

man—when the reservoir gang gets to work I must write the chief engineer to keep a sharp

watch on him. I would hate to think of him as the grey, twisted, brittle monstrosity which

persists more and more in troubling my sleep.

Return to Table of Contents

The Very Old Folk

(1927)

Thursday

[November 3, 1927]

Dear Melmoth:–

. . . So you are busy delving into the shady past of that insufferable young Asiatic Varius

Avitus Bassianus? Ugh! There are few persons I loathe more than that cursed little Syrian rat!

I have myself been carried back to Roman times by my recent perusal of James Rhoades‘

Æneid, a translation never before read by me, and more faithful to P. Maro than any other

versified version I have ever seen—including that of my late uncle Dr. Clark, which did not

attain publication. This Virgilian diversion, together with the spectral thoughts incident to All

Hallows‘ Eve with its Witch-Sabbaths on the hills, produced in me last Monday night a Roman

dream of such supernal clearness and vividness, and such titanic adumbrations of hidden

horror, that I verily believe I shall some day employ it in fiction. Roman dreams were no

uncommon features of my youth—I used to follow the Divine Julius all over Gallia as a

Tribunus Militum o‘nights—but I had so long ceased to experience them, that the present one

impressed me with extraordinary force.

It was a flaming sunset or late afternoon in the tiny provincial town of Pompelo, at the foot of

the Pyrenees in Hispania Citerior. The year must have been in the late republic, for the

province was still ruled by a senatorial proconsul instead of a prætorian legate of Augustus,

and the day was the first before the Kalends of November. The hills rose scarlet and gold to

the north of the little town, and the westering sun shone ruddily and mystically on the crude

new stone and plaster buildings of the dusty forum and the wooden walls of the circus some

distance to the east. Groups of citizens—broad-browed Roman colonists and coarse-haired

Romanised natives, together with obvious hybrids of the two strains, alike clad in cheap

woollen togas—and sprinklings of helmeted legionaries and coarse-mantled, black-bearded

tribesmen of the circumambient Vascones—all thronged the few paved streets and forum;

moved by some vague and ill-defined uneasiness.

I myself had just alighted from a litter, which the Illyrian bearers seemed to have brought in

some haste from Calagurris, across the Iberus to the southward. It appeared that I was a

provincial quæstor named L. Cælius Rufus, and that I had been summoned by the proconsul,

P. Scribonius Libo, who had come from Tarraco some days before. The soldiers were the fifth

cohort of the XIIth legion, under the military tribune Sex. Asellius; and the legatus of the whole

region, Cn. Balbutius, had also come from Calagurris, where the permanent station was.

The cause of the conference was a horror that brooded on the hills. All the townsfolk were

frightened, and had begged the presence of a cohort from Calagurris. It was the Terrible

Season of the autumn, and the wild people in the mountains were preparing for the frightful

ceremonies which only rumour told of in the towns. They were the very old folk who dwelt

higher up in the hills and spoke a choppy language which the Vascones could not understand.

One seldom saw them; but a few times a year they sent down little yellow, squint-eyed

messengers (who looked like Scythians) to trade with the merchants by means of gestures,

and every spring and autumn they held the infamous rites on the peaks, their howlings and

altar-fires throwing terror into the villages. Always the same—the night before the Kalends of

Maius and the night before the Kalends of November. Townsfolk would disappear just before

these nights, and would never be heard of again. And there were whispers that the native

shepherds and farmers were not ill-disposed toward the very old folk—that more than one

thatched hut was vacant before midnight on the two hideous Sabbaths.

This year the horror was very great, for the people knew that the wrath of the very old folk

was upon Pompelo. Three months previously five of the little squint-eyed traders had come

down from the hills, and in a market brawl three of them had been killed. The remaining two

had gone back wordlessly to their mountains—and this autumn not a single villager had

disappeared. There was menace in this immunity. It was not like the very old folk to spare

their victims at the Sabbath. It was too good to be normal, and the villagers were afraid.

For many nights there had been a hollow drumming on the hills, and at last the ædile Tib.

Annæus Stilpo (half native in blood) had sent to Balbutius at Calagurris for a cohort to stamp

out the Sabbath on the terrible night. Balbutius had carelessly refused, on the ground that the

villagers' fears were empty, and that the loathsome rites of hill folk were of no concern to the

Roman People unless our own citizens were menaced. I, however, who seemed to be a close

friend of Balbutius, had disagreed with him; averring that I had studied deeply in the black

forbidden lore, and that I believed the very old folk capable of visiting almost any nameless

doom upon the town, which after all was a Roman settlement and contained a great number

of our citizens. The complaining ædile's own mother Helvia was a pure Roman, the daughter

of M. Helvius Cinna, who had come over with Scipio's army. Accordingly I had sent a slave—a

nimble little Greek called Antipater—to the proconsul with letters, and Scribonius had heeded

my plea and ordered Balbutius to send his fifth cohort, under Asellius, to Pompelo; entering

the hills at dusk on the eve of November's Kalends and stamping out whatever nameless

orgies he might find—bringing such prisoners as he might take to Tarraco for the next

proprætor's court. Balbutius, however, had protested, so that more correspondence had

ensued. I had written so much to the proconsul that he had become gravely interested, and

had resolved to make a personal inquiry into the horror.

He had at length proceeded to Pompelo with his lictors and attendants; there hearing enough

rumours to be greatly impressed and disturbed, and standing firmly by his order for the

Sabbath's extirpation. Desirous of conferring with one who had studied the subject, he

ordered me to accompany Asellius' cohort—and Balbutius had also come along to press his

adverse advice, for he honestly believed that drastic military action would stir up a dangerous

sentiment of unrest amongst the Vascones both tribal and settled.

So here we all were in the mystic sunset of the autumn hills—old Scribonius Libo in his toga

prætexta, the golden light glancing on his shiny bald head and wrinkled hawk face, Balbutius

with his gleaming helmet and breastplate, blue-shaven lips compressed in conscientiously

dogged opposition, young Asellius with his polished greaves and superior sneer, and the

curious throng of townsfolk, legionaries, tribesmen, peasants, lictors, slaves, and attendants. I

myself seemed to wear a common toga, and to have no especially distinguishing

characteristic. And everywhere horror brooded. The town and country folk scarcely dared

speak aloud, and the men of Libo's entourage, who had been there nearly a week, seemed to

have caught something of the nameless dread. Old Scribonius himself looked very grave, and

the sharp voices of us later comers seemed to hold something of curious inappropriateness,

as in a place of death or the temple of some mystic god.

We entered the prætorium and held grave converse. Balbutius pressed his objections, and

was sustained by Asellius, who appeared to hold all the natives in extreme contempt while at

the same time deeming it inadvisable to excite them. Both soldiers maintained that we could

better afford to antagonise the minority of colonists and civilised natives by inaction, than to

antagonise a probable majority of tribesmen and cottagers by stamping out the dread rites.

I, on the other hand, renewed my demand for action, and offered to accompany the cohort on

any expedition it might undertake. I pointed out that the barbarous Vascones were at best

turbulent and uncertain, so that skirmishes with them were inevitable sooner or later

whichever course we might take; that they had not in the past proved dangerous adversaries

to our legions, and that it would ill become the representatives of the Roman People to suffer

barbarians to interfere with a course which the justice and prestige of the Republic

demanded. That, on the other hand, the successful administration of a province depended

primarily upon the safety and good-will of the civilised element in whose hands the local

machinery of commerce and prosperity reposed, and in whose veins a large mixture of our

own Italian blood coursed. These, though in numbers they might form a minority, were the

stable element whose constancy might be relied on, and whose cooperation would most firmly

bind the province to the Imperium of the Senate and the Roman People. It was at once a duty

and an advantage to afford them the protection due to Roman citizens; even (and here I shot

a sarcastic look at Balbutius and Asellius) at the expense of a little trouble and activity, and of

a slight interruption of the draught-playing and cock-fighting at the camp in Calagurris. That

the danger to the town and inhabitants of Pompelo was a real one, I could not from my

studies doubt. I had read many scrolls out of Syria and Ægyptus, and the cryptic towns of

Etruria, and had talked at length with the bloodthirsty priest of Diana Aricina in his temple in

the woods bordering Lacus Nemorensis. There were shocking dooms that might be called out

of the hills on the Sabbaths; dooms which ought not to exist within the territories of the

Roman People; and to permit orgies of the kind known to prevail at Sabbaths would be but

little in consonance with the customs of those whose forefathers, A. Postumius being consul,

had executed so many Roman citizens for the practice of the Bacchanalia—a matter kept

ever in memory by the Senatus Consultum de Bacchanalibus, graven upon bronze and set

open to every eye. Checked in time, before the progress of the rites might evoke anything

with which the iron of a Roman pilum might not be able to deal, the Sabbath would not be too

much for the powers of a single cohort. Only participants need be apprehended, and the

sparing of a great number of mere spectators would considerably lessen the resentment

which any of the sympathising country folk might feel. In short, both principle and policy

demanded stern action; and I could not doubt but that Publius Scribonius, bearing in mind the

dignity and obligations of the Roman People, would adhere to his plan of despatching the

cohort, me accompanying, despite such objections as Balbutius and Asellius—speaking

indeed more like provincials than Romans—might see fit to offer and multiply.

The slanting sun was now very low, and the whole hushed town seemed draped in an unreal

and malign glamour. Then P. Scribonius the proconsul signified his approval of my words, and

stationed me with the cohort in the provisional capacity of a centurio primipilus; Balbutius and

Asellius assenting, the former with better grace than the latter. As twilight fell on the wild

autumnal slopes, a measured, hideous beating of strange drums floated down from afar in

terrible rhythm. Some few of the legionarii shewed timidity, but sharp commands brought

them into line, and the whole cohort was soon drawn up on the open plain east of the circus.

Libo himself, as well as Balbutius, insisted on accompanying the cohort; but great difficulty

was suffered in getting a native guide to point out the paths up the mountain. Finally a young

man named Vercellius, the son of pure Roman parents, agreed to take us at least past the

foothills. We began to march in the new dusk, with the thin silver sickle of a young moon

trembling over the woods on our left. That which disquieted us most was the fact that the

Sabbath was to be held at all. Reports of the coming cohort must have reached the hills, and

even the lack of a final decision could not make the rumour less alarming—yet there were the

sinister drums as of yore, as if the celebrants had some peculiar reason to be indifferent

whether or not the forces of the Roman People marched against them. The sound grew

louder as we entered a rising gap in the hills, steep wooded banks enclosing us narrowly on

either side, and displaying curiously fantastic tree-trunks in the light of our bobbing torches. All

were afoot save Libo, Balbutius, Asellius, two or three of the centuriones, and myself, and at

length the way became so steep and narrow that those who had horses were forced to leave

them; a squad of ten men being left to guard them, though robber bands were not likely to be

abroad on such a night of terror. Once in a while it seemed as though we detected a skulking

form in the woods nearby, and after a half-hour's climb the steepness and narrowness of the

way made the advance of so great a body of men—over 300, all told—exceedingly cumbrous

and difficult. Then with utter and horrifying suddenness we heard a frightful sound from below.

It was from the tethered horses—they had screamed, not neighed, but screamed... and there

was no light down there, nor the sound of any human thing, to shew why they had done so. At

the same moment bonfires blazed out on all the peaks ahead, so that terror seemed to lurk

equally well before and behind us. Looking for the youth Vercellius, our guide, we found only

a crumpled heap weltering in a pool of blood. In his hand was a short sword snatched from

the belt of D. Vibulanus, a subcenturio, and on his face was such a look of terror that the

stoutest veterans turned pale at the sight. He had killed himself when the horses screamed...

he, who had been born and lived all his life in that region, and knew what men whispered

about the hills. All the torches now began to dim, and the cries of frightened legionaries

mingled with the unceasing screams of the tethered horses. The air grew perceptibly colder,

more suddenly so than is usual at November's brink, and seemed stirred by terrible

undulations which I could not help connecting with the beating of huge wings. The whole

cohort now remained at a standstill, and as the torches faded I watched what I thought were

fantastic shadows outlined in the sky by the spectral luminosity of the Via Lactea as it flowed

through Perseus, Cassiopeia, Cepheus, and Cygnus. Then suddenly all the stars were blotted

from the sky—even bright Deneb and Vega ahead, and the lone Altair and Fomalhaut behind

us. And as the torches died out altogether, there remained above the stricken and shrieking

cohort only the noxious and horrible altar-flames on the towering peaks; hellish and red, and

now silhouetting the mad, leaping, and colossal forms of such nameless beasts as had never

a Phrygian priest or Campanian grandam whispered of in the wildest of furtive tales. And

above the nighted screaming of men and horses that dæmonic drumming rose to louder pitch,

whilst an ice-cold wind of shocking sentience and deliberateness swept down from those

forbidden heights and coiled about each man separately, till all the cohort was struggling and

screaming in the dark, as if acting out the fate of Laocoön and his sons. Only old Scribonius

Libo seemed resigned. He uttered words amidst the screaming, and they echo still in my ears.

―Malitia vetus—malitia vetus est . . . venit . . . tandem venit . . .”

And then I waked. It was the most vivid dream in years, drawing upon wells of the

subconscious long untouched and forgotten. Of the fate of that cohort no record exists, but

the town at least was saved—for encyclopædias tell of the survival of Pompelo to this day,

under the modern Spanish name of Pompelona. . . .

Yrs for Gothick Supremacy–

C · IVLIVS · VERVS · MAXIMINVS.

Return to Table of Contents

The Thing in the Moonlight

(1927)

Morgan is not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency.

That is what makes me wonder about the words he wrote, though others have laughed.

He was alone the evening it happened. Suddenly an unconquerable urge to write came over

him, and taking pen in hand he wrote the following:

My name is Howard Phillips. I live at 66 College Street, in Providence, Rhode Island. On

November 24, 1927—for I know not even what the year may be now—, I fell asleep and

dreamed, since when I have been unable to awaken.

My dream began in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay under a gray autumn sky, with a

rugged cliff of lichen-crusted stone rising to the north. Impelled by some obscure quest, I

ascended a rift or cleft in this beetling precipice, noting as I did so the black mouths of many

fearsome burrows extending from both walls into the depths of the stony plateau.

At several points the passage was roofed over by the choking of the upper parts of the narrow

fissure; these places being exceeding dark, and forbidding the perception of such burrows as

may have existed there. In one such dark space I felt conscious of a singular accession of

fright, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the abyss were engulfing my spirit; but

the blackness was too great for me to perceive the source of my alarm.

At length I emerged upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a faint

moonlight which had replaced the expiring orb of day. Casting my eyes about, I beheld no

living object; but was sensible of a very peculiar stirring far below me, amongst the whispering

rushes of the pestilential swamp I had lately quitted.

After walking for some distance, I encountered the rusty tracks of a street railway, and the

worm-eaten poles which still held the limp and sagging trolley wire. Following this line, I soon

came upon a yellow, vestibuled car numbered 1852—of a plain, double-trucked type common

from 1900 to 1910. It was untenanted, but evidently ready to start; the trolley being on the

wire and the air-brake now and then throbbing beneath the floor. I boarded it and looked

vainly about for the light switch—noting as I did so the absence of the controller handle, which

thus implied the brief absence of the motorman. Then I sat down in one of the cross seats of

the vehicle. Presently I heard a swishing in the sparse grass toward the left, and saw the dark

forms of two men looming up in the moonlight. They had the regulation caps of a railway

company, and I could not doubt but that they were conductor and motorman. Then one of

them sniffed with singular sharpness, and raised his face to howl to the moon. The other

dropped on all fours to run toward the car.

I leaped up at once and raced madly out of that car and across endless leagues of plateau till

exhaustion forced me to stop—doing this not because the conductor had dropped on all fours,

but because the face of the motorman was a mere white cone tapering to one blood-red-

tentacle. . . .

I was aware that I only dreamed, but the very awareness was not pleasant.

Since that fearful night, I have prayed only for awakening—it has not come!

Instead I have found myself an inhabitant of this terrible dream-world! That first night gave

way to dawn, and I wandered aimlessly over the lonely swamp-lands. When night came, I still

The History of the Necronomicon

(1927)

Original title Al Azif—azif being the word used by Arabs to designate that nocturnal sound

(made by insects) suppos‘d to be the howling of daemons.

Composed by Abdul Alhazred, a mad poet of Sanaá, in Yemen, who is said to have flourished

during the period of the Ommiade caliphs, circa 700 A.D. He visited the ruins of Babylon and

the subterranean secrets of Memphis and spent ten years alone in the great southern desert

of Arabia—the Roba el Khaliyeh or ―Empty Space‖ of the ancients—and ―Dahna‖ or ―Crimson‖

desert of the modern Arabs, which is held to be inhabited by protective evil spirits and

monsters of death. Of this desert many strange and unbelievable marvels are told by those

who pretend to have penetrated it. In his last years Alhazred dwelt in Damascus, where the

Necronomicon (Al Azif) was written, and of his final death or disappearance (738 A.D.) many

terrible and conflicting things are told. He is said by Ebn Khallikan (12th cent. biographer) to

have been seized by an invisible monster in broad daylight and devoured horribly before a

large number of fright-frozen witnesses. Of his madness many things are told. He claimed to

have seen fabulous Irem, or City of Pillars, and to have found beneath the ruins of a certain

nameless desert town the shocking annals and secrets of a race older than mankind. He was

only an indifferent Moslem, worshipping unknown entities whom he called Yog-Sothoth and

Cthulhu.

In A.D. 950 the Azif, which had gained a considerable tho‘ surreptitious circulation amongst

the philosophers of the age, was secretly translated into Greek by Theodorus Philetas of

Constantinople under the title Necronomicon. For a century it impelled certain experimenters

to terrible attempts, when it was suppressed and burnt by the patriarch Michael. After this it is

only heard of furtively, but (1228) Olaus Wormius made a Latin translation later in the Middle

Ages, and the Latin text was printed twice—once in the fifteenth century in black-letter

(evidently in Germany) and once in the seventeenth (prob. Spanish)—both editions being

without identifying marks, and located as to time and place by internal typographical evidence

only. The work both Latin and Greek was banned by Pope Gregory IX in 1232, shortly after its

Latin translation, which called attention to it. The Arabic original was lost as early as Wormius‘

time, as indicated by his prefatory note; and no sight of the Greek copy—which was printed in

Italy between 1500 and 1550—has been reported since the burning of a certain Salem man‘s

library in 1692. An English translation made by Dr. Dee was never printed, and exists only in

fragments recovered from the original manuscript. Of the Latin texts now existing one (15th

cent.) is known to be in the British Museum under lock and key, while another (17th cent.) is

in the Bibliothèque Nationale at Paris. A seventeenth-century edition is in the Widener Library

at Harvard, and in the library of Miskatonic University at Arkham. Also in the library of the

University of Buenos Ayres. Numerous other copies probably exist in secret, and a fifteenth-

century one is persistently rumoured to form part of the collection of a celebrated American

millionaire. A still vaguer rumour credits the preservation of a sixteenth-century Greek text in

the Salem family of Pickman; but if it was so preserved, it vanished with the artist R.U.

Pickman, who disappeared early in 1926. The book is rigidly suppressed by the authorities of

most countries, and by all branches of organised ecclesiasticism. Reading leads to terrible

consequences. It was from rumours of this book (of which relatively few of the general public

know) that R.W. Chambers is said to have derived the idea of his early novel The King in

Yellow.

Ibid

(1928)

(―. . . as Ibid says in his famous Lives of the Poets.‖

—From a student theme.)

The erroneous idea that Ibid is the author of the Lives is so frequently met with, even among

those pretending to a degree of culture, that it is worth correcting. It should be a matter of

general knowledge that Cf. is responsible for this work. Ibid‘s masterpiece, on the other hand,

was the famous Op. Cit. wherein all the significant undercurrents of Graeco-Roman

expression were crystallised once for all—and with admirable acuteness, notwithstanding the

surprisingly late date at which Ibid wrote. There is a false report—very commonly reproduced

in modern books prior to Von Schweinkopf‘s monumental Geschichte der Ostrogothen in

Italien—that Ibid was a Romanised Visigoth of Ataulf‘s horde who settled in Placentia about

410 A.D. The contrary cannot be too strongly emphasised; for Von Schweinkopf, and since his

time Littlewit1 and Bêtenoir,2 have shewn with irrefutable force that this strikingly isolated

figure was a genuine Roman—or at least as genuine a Roman as that degenerate and

mongrelised age could produce—of whom one might well say what Gibbon said of Boethius,

―that he was the last whom Cato or Tully could have acknowledged for their countryman.‖ He

was, like Boethius and nearly all the eminent men of his age, of the great Anician family, and

traced his genealogy with much exactitude and self-satisfaction to all the heroes of the

republic. His full name—long and pompous according to the custom of an age which had lost

the trinomial simplicity of classic Roman nomenclature—is stated by Von Schweinkopf3 to

have been Caius Anicius Magnus Furius Camillus Æmilianus Cornelius Valerius Pompeius

Julius Ibidus; though Littlewit4 rejects Æmilianus and adds Claudius Decius Junianus; whilst

Bêtenoir5 differs radically, giving the full name as Magnus Furius Camillus Aurelius Antoninus

Flavius Anicius Petronius Valentinianus Aegidus Ibidus.

The eminent critic and biographer was born in the year 486, shortly after the extinction of the

Roman rule in Gaul by Clovis. Rome and Ravenna are rivals for the honour of his birth,

though it is certain that he received his rhetorical and philosophical training in the schools of

Athens—the extent of whose suppression by Theodosius a century before is grossly

exaggerated by the superficial. In 512, under the benign rule of the Ostrogoth Theodoric, we

behold him as a teacher of rhetoric at Rome, and in 516 he held the consulship together with

Pompilius Numantius Bombastes Marcellinus Deodamnatus. Upon the death of Theodoric in

526, Ibidus retired from public life to compose his celebrated work (whose pure Ciceronian

style is as remarkable a case of classic atavism as is the verse of Claudius Claudianus, who

flourished a century before Ibidus); but he was later recalled to scenes of pomp to act as court

rhetorician for Theodatus, nephew of Theodoric.

Upon the usurpation of Vitiges, Ibidus fell into disgrace and was for a time imprisoned; but the

coming of the Byzantine-Roman army under Belisarius soon restored him to liberty and

honours. Throughout the siege of Rome he served bravely in the army of the defenders, and

afterward followed the eagles of Belisarius to Alba, Porto, and Centumcellae. After the

Frankish siege of Milan, Ibidus was chosen to accompany the learned Bishop Datius to

Greece, and resided with him at Corinth in the year 539. About 541 he removed to

Constantinopolis, where he received every mark of imperial favour both from Justinianus and

Justinus the Second. The Emperors Tiberius and Maurice did kindly honour to his old age,

and contributed much to his immortality—especially Maurice, whose delight it was to trace his

ancestry to old Rome notwithstanding his birth at Arabiscus, in Cappadocia. It was Maurice

who, in the poet‘s 101st year, secured the adoption of his work as a textbook in the schools of

the empire, an honour which proved a fatal tax on the aged rhetorician‘s emotions, since he

passed away peacefully at his home near the church of St. Sophia on the sixth day before the

Kalends of September, A.D. 587, in the 102nd year of his age.

His remains, notwithstanding the troubled state of Italy, were taken to Ravenna for interment;

but being interred in the suburb of Classe, were exhumed and ridiculed by the Lombard Duke

of Spoleto, who took his skull to King Autharis for use as a wassail-bowl. Ibid‘s skull was

proudly handed down from king to king of the Lombard line. Upon the capture of Pavia by

Charlemagne in 774, the skull was seized from the tottering Desiderius and carried in the train

of the Frankish conqueror. It was from this vessel, indeed, that Pope Leo administered the

royal unction which made of the hero-nomad a Holy Roman Emperor. Charlemagne took

Ibid‘s skull to his capital at Aix, soon afterward presenting it to his Saxon teacher Alcuin, upon

whose death in 804 it was sent to Alcuin‘s kinsfolk in England.

William the Conqueror, finding it in an abbey niche where the pious family of Alcuin had

placed it (believing it to be the skull of a saint6 who had miraculously annihilated the

Lombards by his prayers), did reverence to its osseous antiquity; and even the rough soldiers

of Cromwell, upon destroying Ballylough Abbey in Ireland in 1650 (it having been secretly

transported thither by a devout Papist in 1539, upon Henry VIII‘s dissolution of the English

monasteries), declined to offer violence to a relic so venerable.

It was captured by the private soldier Read-‘em-and-Weep Hopkins, who not long after traded

it to Rest-in-Jehovah Stubbs for a quid of new Virginia weed. Stubbs, upon sending forth his

son Zerubbabel to seek his fortune in New England in 1661 (for he thought ill of the

Restoration atmosphere for a pious young yeoman), gave him St. Ibid‘s—or rather Brother

Ibid‘s, for he abhorred all that was Popish—skull as a talisman. Upon landing in Salem

Zerubbabel set it up in his cupboard beside the chimney, he having built a modest house near

the town pump. However, he had not been wholly unaffected by the Restoration influence;

and having become addicted to gaming, lost the skull to one Epenetus Dexter, a visiting

freeman of Providence.

It was in the house of Dexter, in the northern part of the town near the present intersection of

North Main and Olney Streets, on the occasion of Canonchet‘s raid of March 30, 1676, during

King Philip‘s War; and the astute sachem, recognising it at once as a thing of singular

venerableness and dignity, sent it as a symbol of alliance to a faction of the Pequots in

Connecticut with whom he was negotiating. On April 4 he was captured by the colonists and

soon after executed, but the austere head of Ibid continued on its wanderings.

The Pequots, enfeebled by a previous war, could give the now stricken Narragansetts no

assistance; and in 1680 a Dutch fur-trader of Albany, Petrus van Schaack, secured the

distinguished cranium for the modest sum of two guilders, he having recognised its value from

the half-effaced inscription carved in Lombardic minuscules (palaeography, it might be

explained, was one of the leading accomplishments of New-Netherland fur-traders of the

seventeenth century).

From van Schaack, sad to say, the relic was stolen in 1683 by a French trader, Jean Grenier,

whose Popish zeal recognised the features of one whom he had been taught at his mother‘s

knee to revere as St. Ibide. Grenier, fired with virtuous rage at the possession of this holy

symbol by a Protestant, crushed van Schaack‘s head one night with an axe and escaped to

the north with his booty; soon, however, being robbed and slain by the half-breed voyageur

Michel Savard, who took the skull—despite the illiteracy which prevented his recognising it—

to add to a collection of similar but more recent material.

Upon his death in 1701 his half-breed son Pierre traded it among other things to some

emissaries of the Sacs and Foxes, and it was found outside the chief‘s tepee a generation

later by Charles de Langlade, founder of the trading post at Green Bay, Wisconsin. De

Langlade regarded this sacred object with proper veneration and ransomed it at the expense

of many glass beads; yet after his time it found itself in many other hands, being traded to

settlements at the head of Lake Winnebago, to tribes around Lake Mendota, and finally, early

in the nineteenth century, to one Solomon Juneau, a Frenchman, at the new trading post of

Milwaukee on the Menominee River and the shore of Lake Michigan.

Later traded to Jacques Caboche, another settler, it was in 1850 lost in a game of chess or

poker to a newcomer named Hans Zimmerman; being used by him as a beer-stein until one

day, under the spell of its contents, he suffered it to roll from his front stoop to the prairie path

before his home—where, falling into the burrow of a prairie-dog, it passed beyond his power

of discovery or recovery upon his awaking.

So for generations did the sainted skull of Caius Anicius Magnus Furius Camillus Æmilianus

Cornelius Valerius Pompeius Julius Ibidus, consul of Rome, favourite of emperors, and saint

of the Romish church, lie hidden beneath the soil of a growing town. At first worshipped with

dark rites by the prairie-dogs, who saw in it a deity sent from the upper world, it afterward fell

into dire neglect as the race of simple, artless burrowers succumbed before the onslaught of

the conquering Aryan. Sewers came, but they passed by it. Houses went up—2303 of them,

and more—and at last one fateful night a titan thing occurred. Subtle Nature, convulsed with a

spiritual ecstasy, like the froth of that region‘s quondam beverage, laid low the lofty and

heaved high the humble—and behold! In the roseal dawn the burghers of Milwaukee rose to

find a former prairie turned to a highland! Vast and far-reaching was the great upheaval.

Subterrene arcana, hidden for years, came at last to the light. For there, full in the rifted

roadway, lay bleached and tranquil in bland, saintly, and consular pomp the dome-like skull of

Ibid!

[NOTES]

1. Rome and Byzantium: A Study in Survival (Waukesha, 1869), Vol. XX, p. 598.

2. Influences Romains dans le Moyen Age (Fond du Lac, 1877), Vol. XV, p. 720.

3. Following Procopius, Goth. x.y.z.

4. Following Jornandes, Codex Murat. xxj. 4144.

5. After Pagi, 50–50.

6. Not till the appearance of von Schweinkopf‘s work in 1797 were St. Ibid and the rhetorician

properly re-identified.

Return to Table of Contents

The Dunwich Horror

(1928)

―Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimaeras—dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies—

may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition—but they were there before.

They are transcripts, types—the archetypes are in us, and eternal. How else

should the recital of that which we know in a waking sense to be false come to

affect us at all? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such objects, considered

in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily injury? O, least of all! These

terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body—or without the body, they

would have been the same. . . . That the kind of fear here treated is purely

spiritual—that it is strong in proportion as it is objectless on earth, that it

predominates in the period of our sinless infancy—are difficulties the solution of

which might afford some probable insight into our ante-mundane condition, and a

peep at least into the shadowland of pre-existence.‖

—Charles Lamb: ―Witches and Other Night-Fears‖

When a traveller in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the junction of the

Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean‘s Corners he comes upon a lonely and curious country. The

ground gets higher, and the brier-bordered stone walls press closer and closer against the

ruts of the dusty, curving road. The trees of the frequent forest belts seem too large, and the

wild weeds, brambles, and grasses attain a luxuriance not often found in settled regions. At

the same time the planted fields appear singularly few and barren; while the sparsely

scattered houses wear a surprisingly uniform aspect of age, squalor, and dilapidation. Without

knowing why, one hesitates to ask directions from the gnarled, solitary figures spied now and

then on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping, rock-strown meadows. Those figures are so

silent and furtive that one feels somehow confronted by forbidden things, with which it would

be better to have nothing to do. When a rise in the road brings the mountains in view above

the deep woods, the feeling of strange uneasiness is increased. The summits are too rounded

and symmetrical to give a sense of comfort and naturalness, and sometimes the sky

silhouettes with especial clearness the queer circles of tall stone pillars with which most of

them are crowned.

Gorges and ravines of problematical depth intersect the way, and the crude wooden bridges

always seem of dubious safety. When the road dips again there are stretches of marshland

that one instinctively dislikes, and indeed almost fears at evening when unseen whippoorwills

chatter and the fireflies come out in abnormal profusion to dance to the raucous, creepily

insistent rhythms of stridently piping bull-frogs. The thin, shining line of the Miskatonic‘s upper

reaches has an oddly serpent-like suggestion as it winds close to the feet of the domed hills

among which it rises.

As the hills draw nearer, one heeds their wooded sides more than their stone-crowned tops.

Those sides loom up so darkly and precipitously that one wishes they would keep their

distance, but there is no road by which to escape them. Across a covered bridge one sees a

small village huddled between the stream and the vertical slope of Round Mountain, and

wonders at the cluster of rotting gambrel roofs bespeaking an earlier architectural period than

that of the neighbouring region. It is not reassuring to see, on a closer glance, that most of the

houses are deserted and falling to ruin, and that the broken-steepled church now harbours

the one slovenly mercantile establishment of the hamlet. One dreads to trust the tenebrous

tunnel of the bridge, yet there is no way to avoid it. Once across, it is hard to prevent the

impression of a faint, malign odour about the village street, as of the massed mould and

decay of centuries. It is always a relief to get clear of the place, and to follow the narrow road

around the base of the hills and across the level country beyond till it rejoins the Aylesbury

pike. Afterward one sometimes learns that one has been through Dunwich.

Outsiders visit Dunwich as seldom as possible, and since a certain season of horror all the

signboards pointing toward it have been taken down. The scenery, judged by any ordinary

aesthetic canon, is more than commonly beautiful; yet there is no influx of artists or summer

tourists. Two centuries ago, when talk of witch-blood, Satan-worship, and strange forest

presences was not laughed at, it was the custom to give reasons for avoiding the locality. In

our sensible age—since the Dunwich horror of 1928 was hushed up by those who had the

town‘s and the world‘s welfare at heart—people shun it without knowing exactly why. Perhaps

one reason—though it cannot apply to uninformed strangers—is that the natives are now

repellently decadent, having gone far along that path of retrogression so common in many

New England backwaters. They have come to form a race by themselves, with the well-

defined mental and physical stigmata of degeneracy and inbreeding. The average of their

intelligence is woefully low, whilst their annals reek of overt viciousness and of half-hidden

murders, incests, and deeds of almost unnamable violence and perversity. The old gentry,

representing the two or three armigerous families which came from Salem in 1692, have kept

somewhat above the general level of decay; though many branches are sunk into the sordid

populace so deeply that only their names remain as a key to the origin they disgrace. Some of

the Whateleys and Bishops still send their eldest sons to Harvard and Miskatonic, though

those sons seldom return to the mouldering gambrel roofs under which they and their

ancestors were born.

No one, even those who have the facts concerning the recent horror, can say just what is the

matter with Dunwich; though old legends speak of unhallowed rites and conclaves of the

Indians, amidst which they called forbidden shapes of shadow out of the great rounded hills,

and made wild orgiastic prayers that were answered by loud crackings and rumblings from

the ground below. In 1747 the Reverend Abijah Hoadley, newly come to the Congregational

Church at Dunwich Village, preached a memorable sermon on the close presence of Satan

and his imps; in which he said:

―It must be allow‘d, that these Blasphemies of an infernall Train of Daemons are

Matters of too common Knowledge to be deny‘d; the cursed Voices of Azazel and

Buzrael, of Beelzebub and Belial, being heard now from under Ground by above a

Score of credible Witnesses now living. I my self did not more than a Fortnight ago

catch a very plain Discourse of evill Powers in the Hill behind my House; wherein

there were a Rattling and Rolling, Groaning, Screeching, and Hissing, such as no

Things of this Earth cou‘d raise up, and which must needs have come from those

Caves that only black Magick can discover, and only the Divell unlock.‖

Mr. Hoadley disappeared soon after delivering this sermon; but the text, printed in Springfield,

is still extant. Noises in the hills continued to be reported from year to year, and still form a

puzzle to geologists and physiographers.

Other traditions tell of foul odours near the hill-crowning circles of stone pillars, and of rushing

airy presences to be heard faintly at certain hours from stated points at the bottom of the great

ravines; while still others try to explain the Devil‘s Hop Yard—a bleak, blasted hillside where

no tree, shrub, or grass-blade will grow. Then too, the natives are mortally afraid of the

numerous whippoorwills which grow vocal on warm nights. It is vowed that the birds are

psychopomps lying in wait for the souls of the dying, and that they time their eerie cries in

unison with the sufferer‘s struggling breath. If they can catch the fleeing soul when it leaves

the body, they instantly flutter away chittering in daemoniac laughter; but if they fail, they

subside gradually into a disappointed silence.

These tales, of course, are obsolete and ridiculous; because they come down from very old

times. Dunwich is indeed ridiculously old—older by far than any of the communities within

thirty miles of it. South of the village one may still spy the cellar walls and chimney of the

ancient Bishop house, which was built before 1700; whilst the ruins of the mill at the falls, built

in 1806, form the most modern piece of architecture to be seen. Industry did not flourish here,

and the nineteenth-century factory movement proved short-lived. Oldest of all are the great

rings of rough-hewn stone columns on the hill-tops, but these are more generally attributed to

the Indians than to the settlers. Deposits of skulls and bones, found within these circles and

around the sizeable table-like rock on Sentinel Hill, sustain the popular belief that such spots

were once the burial-places of the Pocumtucks; even though many ethnologists, disregarding

the absurd improbability of such a theory, persist in believing the remains Caucasian.

II.

It was in the township of Dunwich, in a large and partly inhabited farmhouse set against a

hillside four miles from the village and a mile and a half from any other dwelling, that Wilbur

Whateley was born at 5 A.M. on Sunday, the second of February, 1913. This date was

recalled because it was Candlemas, which people in Dunwich curiously observe under

another name; and because the noises in the hills had sounded, and all the dogs of the

countryside had barked persistently, throughout the night before. Less worthy of notice was

the fact that the mother was one of the decadent Whateleys, a somewhat deformed,

unattractive albino woman of thirty-five, living with an aged and half-insane father about whom

the most frightful tales of wizardry had been whispered in his youth. Lavinia Whateley had no

known husband, but according to the custom of the region made no attempt to disavow the

child; concerning the other side of whose ancestry the country folk might—and did—speculate

as widely as they chose. On the contrary, she seemed strangely proud of the dark, goatish-

looking infant who formed such a contrast to her own sickly and pink-eyed albinism, and was

heard to mutter many curious prophecies about its unusual powers and tremendous future.

Lavinia was one who would be apt to mutter such things, for she was a lone creature given to

wandering amidst thunderstorms in the hills and trying to read the great odorous books which

her father had inherited through two centuries of Whateleys, and which were fast falling to

pieces with age and worm-holes. She had never been to school, but was filled with disjointed

scraps of ancient lore that Old Whateley had taught her. The remote farmhouse had always

been feared because of Old Whateley‘s reputation for black magic, and the unexplained

death by violence of Mrs. Whateley when Lavinia was twelve years old had not helped to

make the place popular. Isolated among strange influences, Lavinia was fond of wild and

grandiose day-dreams and singular occupations; nor was her leisure much taken up by

household cares in a home from which all standards of order and cleanliness had long since

disappeared.

There was a hideous screaming which echoed above even the hill noises and the dogs‘

barking on the night Wilbur was born, but no known doctor or midwife presided at his coming.

Neighbours knew nothing of him till a week afterward, when Old Whateley drove his sleigh

through the snow into Dunwich Village and discoursed incoherently to the group of loungers

at Osborn‘s general store. There seemed to be a change in the old man—an added element

of furtiveness in the clouded brain which subtly transformed him from an object to a subject of

fear—though he was not one to be perturbed by any common family event. Amidst it all he

shewed some trace of the pride later noticed in his daughter, and what he said of the child‘s

paternity was remembered by many of his hearers years afterward.

―I dun‘t keer what folks think—ef Lavinny‘s boy looked like his pa, he wouldn‘t look like nothin‘

ye expeck. Ye needn‘t think the only folks is the folks hereabaouts. Lavinny‘s read some, an‘

has seed some things the most o‘ ye only tell abaout. I calc‘late her man is as good a husban‘

as ye kin find this side of Aylesbury; an‘ ef ye knowed as much abaout the hills as I dew, ye

wouldn‘t ast no better church weddin‘ nor her‘n. Let me tell ye suthin‘—some day yew folks’ll

hear a child o’ Lavinny’s a-callin’ its father’s name on the top o’ Sentinel Hill!”

The only persons who saw Wilbur during the first month of his life were old Zechariah

Whateley, of the undecayed Whateleys, and Earl Sawyer‘s common-law wife, Mamie Bishop.

Mamie‘s visit was frankly one of curiosity, and her subsequent tales did justice to her

observations; but Zechariah came to lead a pair of Alderney cows which Old Whateley had

bought of his son Curtis. This marked the beginning of a course of cattle-buying on the part of

small Wilbur‘s family which ended only in 1928, when the Dunwich horror came and went; yet

at no time did the ramshackle Whateley barn seem overcrowded with livestock. There came a

period when people were curious enough to steal up and count the herd that grazed

precariously on the steep hillside above the old farmhouse, and they could never find more

than ten or twelve anaemic, bloodless-looking specimens. Evidently some blight or distemper,

perhaps sprung from the unwholesome pasturage or the diseased fungi and timbers of the

filthy barn, caused a heavy mortality amongst the Whateley animals. Odd wounds or sores,

having something of the aspect of incisions, seemed to afflict the visible cattle; and once or

twice during the earlier months certain callers fancied they could discern similar sores about

the throats of the grey, unshaven old man and his slatternly, crinkly-haired albino daughter.

In the spring after Wilbur‘s birth Lavinia resumed her customary rambles in the hills, bearing

in her misproportioned arms the swarthy child. Public interest in the Whateleys subsided after

most of the country folk had seen the baby, and no one bothered to comment on the swift

development which that newcomer seemed every day to exhibit. Wilbur‘s growth was indeed

phenomenal, for within three months of his birth he had attained a size and muscular power

not usually found in infants under a full year of age. His motions and even his vocal sounds

shewed a restraint and deliberateness highly peculiar in an infant, and no one was really

unprepared when, at seven months, he began to walk unassisted, with falterings which

another month was sufficient to remove.

It was somewhat after this time—on Hallowe‘en—that a great blaze was seen at midnight on

the top of Sentinel Hill where the old table-like stone stands amidst its tumulus of ancient

bones. Considerable talk was started when Silas Bishop—of the undecayed Bishops—

mentioned having seen the boy running sturdily up that hill ahead of his mother about an hour

before the blaze was remarked. Silas was rounding up a stray heifer, but he nearly forgot his

mission when he fleetingly spied the two figures in the dim light of his lantern. They darted

almost noiselessly through the underbrush, and the astonished watcher seemed to think they

were entirely unclothed. Afterward he could not be sure about the boy, who may have had

some kind of a fringed belt and a pair of dark trunks or trousers on. Wilbur was never

subsequently seen alive and conscious without complete and tightly buttoned attire, the

disarrangement or threatened disarrangement of which always seemed to fill him with anger

and alarm. His contrast with his squalid mother and grandfather in this respect was thought

very notable until the horror of 1928 suggested the most valid of reasons.

The next January gossips were mildly interested in the fact that ―Lavinny‘s black brat‖ had

commenced to talk, and at the age of only eleven months. His speech was somewhat

remarkable both because of its difference from the ordinary accents of the region, and

because it displayed a freedom from infantile lisping of which many children of three or four

might well be proud. The boy was not talkative, yet when he spoke he seemed to reflect some

elusive element wholly unpossessed by Dunwich and its denizens. The strangeness did not

reside in what he said, or even in the simple idioms he used; but seemed vaguely linked with

his intonation or with the internal organs that produced the spoken sounds. His facial aspect,

too, was remarkable for its maturity; for though he shared his mother‘s and grandfather‘s

chinlessness, his firm and precociously shaped nose united with the expression of his large,

dark, almost Latin eyes to give him an air of quasi-adulthood and well-nigh preternatural

intelligence. He was, however, exceedingly ugly despite his appearance of brilliancy; there

being something almost goatish or animalistic about his thick lips, large-pored, yellowish skin,

coarse crinkly hair, and oddly elongated ears. He was soon disliked even more decidedly than

his mother and grandsire, and all conjectures about him were spiced with references to the

bygone magic of Old Whateley, and how the hills once shook when he shrieked the dreadful

name of Yog-Sothoth in the midst of a circle of stones with a great book open in his arms

before him. Dogs abhorred the boy, and he was always obliged to take various defensive

measures against their barking menace.

III.

Meanwhile Old Whateley continued to buy cattle without measurably increasing the size of his

herd. He also cut timber and began to repair the unused parts of his house—a spacious,

peaked-roofed affair whose rear end was buried entirely in the rocky hillside, and whose three

least-ruined ground-floor rooms had always been sufficient for himself and his daughter.

There must have been prodigious reserves of strength in the old man to enable him to

accomplish so much hard labour; and though he still babbled dementedly at times, his

carpentry seemed to shew the effects of sound calculation. It had already begun as soon as

Wilbur was born, when one of the many tool-sheds had been put suddenly in order,

clapboarded, and fitted with a stout fresh lock. Now, in restoring the abandoned upper story of

the house, he was a no less thorough craftsman. His mania shewed itself only in his tight

boarding-up of all the windows in the reclaimed section—though many declared that it was a

crazy thing to bother with the reclamation at all. Less inexplicable was his fitting up of another

downstairs room for his new grandson—a room which several callers saw, though no one was

ever admitted to the closely boarded upper story. This chamber he lined with tall, firm

shelving; along which he began gradually to arrange, in apparently careful order, all the rotting

ancient books and parts of books which during his own day had been heaped promiscuously

in odd corners of the various rooms.

―I made some use of ‘em,‖ he would say as he tried to mend a torn black-letter page with

paste prepared on the rusty kitchen stove, ―but the boy‘s fitten to make better use of ‘em. He‘d

orter hev ‘em as well sot as he kin, for they‘re goin‘ to be all of his larnin‘.‖

When Wilbur was a year and seven months old—in September of 1914—his size and

accomplishments were almost alarming. He had grown as large as a child of four, and was a

fluent and incredibly intelligent talker. He ran freely about the fields and hills, and

accompanied his mother on all her wanderings. At home he would pore diligently over the

queer pictures and charts in his grandfather‘s books, while Old Whateley would instruct and

catechise him through long, hushed afternoons. By this time the restoration of the house was

finished, and those who watched it wondered why one of the upper windows had been made

into a solid plank door. It was a window in the rear of the east gable end, close against the hill;

and no one could imagine why a cleated wooden runway was built up to it from the ground.

About the period of this work‘s completion people noticed that the old tool-house, tightly

locked and windowlessly clapboarded since Wilbur‘s birth, had been abandoned again. The

door swung listlessly open, and when Earl Sawyer once stepped within after a cattle-selling

call on Old Whateley he was quite discomposed by the singular odour he encountered—such

a stench, he averred, as he had never before smelt in all his life except near the Indian circles

on the hills, and which could not come from anything sane or of this earth. But then, the

homes and sheds of Dunwich folk have never been remarkable for olfactory immaculateness.

The following months were void of visible events, save that everyone swore to a slow but

steady increase in the mysterious hill noises. On May-Eve of 1915 there were tremors which

even the Aylesbury people felt, whilst the following Hallowe‘en produced an underground

rumbling queerly synchronised with bursts of flame—―them witch Whateleys‘ doin‘s‖—from

the summit of Sentinel Hill. Wilbur was growing up uncannily, so that he looked like a boy of

ten as he entered his fourth year. He read avidly by himself now; but talked much less than

formerly. A settled taciturnity was absorbing him, and for the first time people began to speak

specifically of the dawning look of evil in his goatish face. He would sometimes mutter an

unfamiliar jargon, and chant in bizarre rhythms which chilled the listener with a sense of

unexplainable terror. The aversion displayed toward him by dogs had now become a matter of

wide remark, and he was obliged to carry a pistol in order to traverse the countryside in

safety. His occasional use of the weapon did not enhance his popularity amongst the owners

of canine guardians.

The few callers at the house would often find Lavinia alone on the ground floor, while odd

cries and footsteps resounded in the boarded-up second story. She would never tell what her

father and the boy were doing up there, though once she turned pale and displayed an

abnormal degree of fear when a jocose fish-peddler tried the locked door leading to the

stairway. That peddler told the store loungers at Dunwich Village that he thought he heard a

horse stamping on that floor above. The loungers reflected, thinking of the door and runway,

and of the cattle that so swiftly disappeared. Then they shuddered as they recalled tales of

Old Whateley‘s youth, and of the strange things that are called out of the earth when a bullock

is sacrificed at the proper time to certain heathen gods. It had for some time been noticed that

dogs had begun to hate and fear the whole Whateley place as violently as they hated and

feared young Wilbur personally.

In 1917 the war came, and Squire Sawyer Whateley, as chairman of the local draft board, had

hard work finding a quota of young Dunwich men fit even to be sent to a development camp.

The government, alarmed at such signs of wholesale regional decadence, sent several

officers and medical experts to investigate; conducting a survey which New England

newspaper readers may still recall. It was the publicity attending this investigation which set

reporters on the track of the Whateleys, and caused the Boston Globe and Arkham Advertiser

to print flamboyant Sunday stories of young Wilbur‘s precociousness, Old Whateley‘s black

magic, the shelves of strange books, the sealed second story of the ancient farmhouse, and

the weirdness of the whole region and its hill noises. Wilbur was four and a half then, and

looked like a lad of fifteen. His lips and cheeks were fuzzy with a coarse dark down, and his

voice had begun to break.

Earl Sawyer went out to the Whateley place with both sets of reporters and camera men, and

called their attention to the queer stench which now seemed to trickle down from the sealed

upper spaces. It was, he said, exactly like a smell he had found in the tool-shed abandoned

when the house was finally repaired; and like the faint odours which he sometimes thought he

caught near the stone circles on the mountains. Dunwich folk read the stories when they

appeared, and grinned over the obvious mistakes. They wondered, too, why the writers made

so much of the fact that Old Whateley always paid for his cattle in gold pieces of extremely

ancient date. The Whateleys had received their visitors with ill-concealed distaste, though

they did not dare court further publicity by a violent resistance or refusal to talk.

IV.

For a decade the annals of the Whateleys sink indistinguishably into the general life of a

morbid community used to their queer ways and hardened to their May-Eve and All-Hallows

orgies. Twice a year they would light fires on the top of Sentinel Hill, at which times the

mountain rumblings would recur with greater and greater violence; while at all seasons there

were strange and portentous doings at the lonely farmhouse. In the course of time callers

professed to hear sounds in the sealed upper story even when all the family were downstairs,

and they wondered how swiftly or how lingeringly a cow or bullock was usually sacrificed.

There was talk of a complaint to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; but

nothing ever came of it, since Dunwich folk are never anxious to call the outside world‘s

attention to themselves.

About 1923, when Wilbur was a boy of ten whose mind, voice, stature, and bearded face

gave all the impressions of maturity, a second great siege of carpentry went on at the old

house. It was all inside the sealed upper part, and from bits of discarded lumber people

concluded that the youth and his grandfather had knocked out all the partitions and even

removed the attic floor, leaving only one vast open void between the ground story and the

peaked roof. They had torn down the great central chimney, too, and fitted the rusty range

with a flimsy outside tin stovepipe.

In the spring after this event Old Whateley noticed the growing number of whippoorwills that

would come out of Cold Spring Glen to chirp under his window at night. He seemed to regard

the circumstance as one of great significance, and told the loungers at Osborn‘s that he

thought his time had almost come.

―They whistle jest in tune with my breathin‘ naow,‖ he said, ―an‘ I guess they‘re gittin‘ ready to

ketch my soul. They know it‘s a-goin‘ aout, an‘ dun‘t calc‘late to miss it. Yew‘ll know, boys,

arter I‘m gone, whether they git me er not. Ef they dew, they‘ll keep up a-singin‘ an‘ laffin‘ till

break o‘ day. Ef they dun‘t they‘ll kinder quiet daown like. I expeck them an‘ the souls they

hunts fer hev some pretty tough tussles sometimes.‖

On Lammas Night, 1924, Dr. Houghton of Aylesbury was hastily summoned by Wilbur

Whateley, who had lashed his one remaining horse through the darkness and telephoned

from Osborn‘s in the village. He found Old Whateley in a very grave state, with a cardiac

action and stertorous breathing that told of an end not far off. The shapeless albino daughter

and oddly bearded grandson stood by the bedside, whilst from the vacant abyss overhead

there came a disquieting suggestion of rhythmical surging or lapping, as of the waves on

some level beach. The doctor, though, was chiefly disturbed by the chattering night birds

outside; a seemingly limitless legion of whippoorwills that cried their endless message in

repetitions timed diabolically to the wheezing gasps of the dying man. It was uncanny and

unnatural—too much, thought Dr. Houghton, like the whole of the region he had entered so

reluctantly in response to the urgent call.

Toward one o‘clock Old Whateley gained consciousness, and interrupted his wheezing to

choke out a few words to his grandson.

―More space, Willy, more space soon. Yew grows—an‘ that grows faster. It‘ll be ready to sarve

ye soon, boy. Open up the gates to Yog-Sothoth with the long chant that ye‘ll find on page 751

of the complete edition, an‘ then put a match to the prison. Fire from airth can‘t burn it

nohaow.‖

He was obviously quite mad. After a pause, during which the flock of whippoorwills outside

adjusted their cries to the altered tempo while some indications of the strange hill noises

came from afar off, he added another sentence or two.

―Feed it reg‘lar, Willy, an‘ mind the quantity; but dun‘t let it grow too fast fer the place, fer ef it

busts quarters or gits aout afore ye opens to Yog-Sothoth, it‘s all over an‘ no use. Only them

from beyont kin make it multiply an‘ work. . . . Only them, the old uns as wants to come back. .

. .‖

But speech gave place to gasps again, and Lavinia screamed at the way the whippoorwills

followed the change. It was the same for more than an hour, when the final throaty rattle

came. Dr. Houghton drew shrunken lids over the glazing grey eyes as the tumult of birds

faded imperceptibly to silence. Lavinia sobbed, but Wilbur only chuckled whilst the hill noises

rumbled faintly.

―They didn‘t git him,‖ he muttered in his heavy bass voice.

Wilbur was by this time a scholar of really tremendous erudition in his one-sided way, and

was quietly known by correspondence to many librarians in distant places where rare and

forbidden books of old days are kept. He was more and more hated and dreaded around

Dunwich because of certain youthful disappearances which suspicion laid vaguely at his door;

but was always able to silence inquiry through fear or through use of that fund of old-time gold

which still, as in his grandfather‘s time, went forth regularly and increasingly for cattle-buying.

He was now tremendously mature of aspect, and his height, having reached the normal adult

limit, seemed inclined to wax beyond that figure. In 1925, when a scholarly correspondent

from Miskatonic University called upon him one day and departed pale and puzzled, he was

fully six and three-quarters feet tall.

Through all the years Wilbur had treated his half-deformed albino mother with a growing

contempt, finally forbidding her to go to the hills with him on May-Eve and Hallowmass; and in

1926 the poor creature complained to Mamie Bishop of being afraid of him.

―They‘s more abaout him as I knows than I kin tell ye, Mamie,‖ she said, ―an‘ naowadays

they‘s more nor what I know myself. I vaow afur Gawd, I dun‘t know what he wants nor what

he‘s a-tryin‘ to dew.‖

That Hallowe‘en the hill noises sounded louder than ever, and fire burned on Sentinel Hill as

usual; but people paid more attention to the rhythmical screaming of vast flocks of unnaturally

belated whippoorwills which seemed to be assembled near the unlighted Whateley

farmhouse. After midnight their shrill notes burst into a kind of pandaemoniac cachinnation

which filled all the countryside, and not until dawn did they finally quiet down. Then they

vanished, hurrying southward where they were fully a month overdue. What this meant, no

one could quite be certain till later. None of the country folk seemed to have died—but poor

Lavinia Whateley, the twisted albino, was never seen again.

In the summer of 1927 Wilbur repaired two sheds in the farmyard and began moving his

books and effects out to them. Soon afterward Earl Sawyer told the loungers at Osborn‘s that

more carpentry was going on in the Whateley farmhouse. Wilbur was closing all the doors

and windows on the ground floor, and seemed to be taking out partitions as he and his

grandfather had done upstairs four years before. He was living in one of the sheds, and

Sawyer thought he seemed unusually worried and tremulous. People generally suspected

him of knowing something about his mother‘s disappearance, and very few ever approached

his neighbourhood now. His height had increased to more than seven feet, and shewed no

signs of ceasing its development.

The following winter brought an event no less strange than Wilbur‘s first trip outside the

Dunwich region. Correspondence with the Widener Library at Harvard, the Bibliothèque

Nationale in Paris, the British Museum, the University of Buenos Ayres, and the Library of

Miskatonic University of Arkham had failed to get him the loan of a book he desperately

wanted; so at length he set out in person, shabby, dirty, bearded, and uncouth of dialect, to

consult the copy at Miskatonic, which was the nearest to him geographically. Almost eight feet

tall, and carrying a cheap new valise from Osborn‘s general store, this dark and goatish

gargoyle appeared one day in Arkham in quest of the dreaded volume kept under lock and

key at the college library—the hideous Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred in

Olaus Wormius‘ Latin version, as printed in Spain in the seventeenth century. He had never

seen a city before, but had no thought save to find his way to the university grounds; where,

indeed, he passed heedlessly by the great white-fanged watchdog that barked with unnatural

fury and enmity, and tugged frantically at its stout chain.

Wilbur had with him the priceless but imperfect copy of Dr. Dee‘s English version which his

grandfather had bequeathed him, and upon receiving access to the Latin copy he at once

began to collate the two texts with the aim of discovering a certain passage which would have

come on the 751st page of his own defective volume. This much he could not civilly refrain

from telling the librarian—the same erudite Henry Armitage (A.M. Miskatonic, Ph. D.

Princeton, Litt. D. Johns Hopkins) who had once called at the farm, and who now politely plied

him with questions. He was looking, he had to admit, for a kind of formula or incantation

containing the frightful name Yog-Sothoth, and it puzzled him to find discrepancies,

duplications, and ambiguities which made the matter of determination far from easy. As he

copied the formula he finally chose, Dr. Armitage looked involuntarily over his shoulder at the

open pages; the left-hand one of which, in the Latin version, contained such monstrous

threats to the peace and sanity of the world.

―Nor is it to be thought,‖ ran the text as Armitage mentally translated it, ―that man is

either the oldest or the last of earth‘s masters, or that the common bulk of life and

substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones

shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, They walk serene and

primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-

Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present,

future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of

old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod

earth‘s fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them

as They tread. By Their smell can men sometimes know Them near, but of Their

semblance can no man know, saving only in the features of those They have

begotten on mankind; and of those are there many sorts, differing in likeness from

man‘s truest eidolon to that shape without sight or substance which is Them. They

walk unseen and foul in lonely places where the Words have been spoken and the

Rites howled through at their Seasons. The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the

earth mutters with Their consciousness. They bend the forest and crush the city,

yet may not forest or city behold the hand that smites. Kadath in the cold waste

hath known Them, and what man knows Kadath? The ice desert of the South and

the sunken isles of Ocean hold stones whereon Their seal is engraven, but who

hath seen the deep frozen city or the sealed tower long garlanded with seaweed

and barnacles? Great Cthulhu is Their cousin, yet can he spy Them only dimly. Iä!

Shub-Niggurath! As a foulness shall ye know Them. Their hand is at your throats,

yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold.

Yog-Sothoth is the key to the gate, whereby the spheres meet. Man rules now

where They ruled once; They shall soon rule where man rules now. After summer

is winter, and after winter summer. They wait patient and potent, for here shall They

reign again.‖

Dr. Armitage, associating what he was reading with what he had heard of Dunwich and its

brooding presences, and of Wilbur Whateley and his dim, hideous aura that stretched from a

dubious birth to a cloud of probable matricide, felt a wave of fright as tangible as a draught of

the tomb‘s cold clamminess. The bent, goatish giant before him seemed like the spawn of

another planet or dimension; like something only partly of mankind, and linked to black gulfs

of essence and entity that stretch like titan phantasms beyond all spheres of force and matter,

space and time. Presently Wilbur raised his head and began speaking in that strange,

resonant fashion which hinted at sound-producing organs unlike the run of mankind‘s.

―Mr. Armitage,‖ he said, ―I calc‘late I‘ve got to take that book home. They‘s things in it I‘ve got

to try under sarten conditions that I can‘t git here, an‘ it ‘ud be a mortal sin to let a red-tape

rule hold me up. Let me take it along, Sir, an‘ I‘ll swar they wun‘t nobody know the difference. I

dun‘t need to tell ye I‘ll take good keer of it. It wa‘n‘t me that put this Dee copy in the shape it

is. . . .‖

He stopped as he saw firm denial on the librarian‘s face, and his own goatish features grew

crafty. Armitage, half-ready to tell him he might make a copy of what parts he needed, thought

suddenly of the possible consequences and checked himself. There was too much

responsiblity in giving such a being the key to such blasphemous outer spheres. Whateley

saw how things stood, and tried to answer lightly.

―Wal, all right, ef ye feel that way abaout it. Maybe Harvard wun‘t be so fussy as yew be.‖ And

without saying more he rose and strode out of the building, stooping at each doorway.

Armitage heard the savage yelping of the great watchdog, and studied Whateley‘s gorilla-like

lope as he crossed the bit of campus visible from the window. He thought of the wild tales he

had heard, and recalled the old Sunday stories in the Advertiser; these things, and the lore he

had picked up from Dunwich rustics and villagers during his one visit there. Unseen things not

of earth—or at least not of tri-dimensional earth—rushed foetid and horrible through New

England‘s glens, and brooded obscenely on the mountain-tops. Of this he had long felt

certain. Now he seemed to sense the close presence of some terrible part of the intruding

horror, and to glimpse a hellish advance in the black dominion of the ancient and once

passive nightmare. He locked away the Necronomicon with a shudder of disgust, but the

room still reeked with an unholy and unidentifiable stench. ―As a foulness shall ye know

them,‖ he quoted. Yes—the odour was the same as that which had sickened him at the

Whateley farmhouse less than three years before. He thought of Wilbur, goatish and ominous,

once again, and laughed mockingly at the village rumours of his parentage.

―Inbreeding?‖ Armitage muttered half-aloud to himself. ―Great God, what simpletons! Shew

them Arthur Machen‘s Great God Pan and they‘ll think it a common Dunwich scandal! But

what thing—what cursed shapeless influence on or off this three-dimensioned earth—was

Wilbur Whateley‘s father? Born on Candlemas—nine months after May-Eve of 1912, when

the talk about the queer earth noises reached clear to Arkham— What walked on the

mountains that May-Night? What Roodmas horror fastened itself on the world in half-human

flesh and blood?‖

During the ensuing weeks Dr. Armitage set about to collect all possible data on Wilbur

Whateley and the formless presences around Dunwich. He got in communication with Dr.

Houghton of Aylesbury, who had attended Old Whateley in his last illness, and found much to

ponder over in the grandfather‘s last words as quoted by the physician. A visit to Dunwich

Village failed to bring out much that was new; but a close survey of the Necronomicon, in

those parts which Wilbur had sought so avidly, seemed to supply new and terrible clues to the

nature, methods, and desires of the strange evil so vaguely threatening this planet. Talks with

several students of archaic lore in Boston, and letters to many others elsewhere, gave him a

growing amazement which passed slowly through varied degrees of alarm to a state of really

acute spiritual fear. As the summer drew on he felt dimly that something ought to be done

about the lurking terrors of the upper Miskatonic valley, and about the monstrous being known

to the human world as Wilbur Whateley.

VI.

The Dunwich horror itself came between Lammas and the equinox in 1928, and Dr. Armitage

was among those who witnessed its monstrous prologue. He had heard, meanwhile, of

Whateley‘s grotesque trip to Cambridge, and of his frantic efforts to borrow or copy from the

Necronomicon at the Widener Library. Those efforts had been in vain, since Armitage had

issued warnings of the keenest intensity to all librarians having charge of the dreaded volume.

Wilbur had been shockingly nervous at Cambridge; anxious for the book, yet almost equally

anxious to get home again, as if he feared the results of being away long.

Early in August the half-expected outcome developed, and in the small hours of the 3d Dr.

Armitage was awakened suddenly by the wild, fierce cries of the savage watchdog on the

college campus. Deep and terrible, the snarling, half-mad growls and barks continued; always

in mounting volume, but with hideously significant pauses. Then there rang out a scream from

a wholly different throat—such a scream as roused half the sleepers of Arkham and haunted

their dreams ever afterward—such a scream as could come from no being born of earth, or

wholly of earth.

Armitage, hastening into some clothing and rushing across the street and lawn to the college

buildings, saw that others were ahead of him; and heard the echoes of a burglar-alarm still

shrilling from the library. An open window shewed black and gaping in the moonlight. What

had come had indeed completed its entrance; for the barking and the screaming, now fast

fading into a mixed low growling and moaning, proceeded unmistakably from within. Some

instinct warned Armitage that what was taking place was not a thing for unfortified eyes to

see, so he brushed back the crowd with authority as he unlocked the vestibule door. Among

the others he saw Professor Warren Rice and Dr. Francis Morgan, men to whom he had told

some of his conjectures and misgivings; and these two he motioned to accompany him inside.

The inward sounds, except for a watchful, droning whine from the dog, had by this time quite

subsided; but Armitage now perceived with a sudden start that a loud chorus of whippoorwills

among the shrubbery had commenced a damnably rhythmical piping, as if in unison with the

last breaths of a dying man.

The building was full of a frightful stench which Dr. Armitage knew too well, and the three men

rushed across the hall to the small genealogical reading-room whence the low whining came.

For a second nobody dared to turn on the light, then Armitage summoned up his courage and

snapped the switch. One of the three—it is not certain which—shrieked aloud at what

sprawled before them among disordered tables and overturned chairs. Professor Rice

declares that he wholly lost consciousness for an instant, though he did not stumble or fall.

The thing that lay half-bent on its side in a foetid pool of greenish-yellow ichor and tarry

stickiness was almost nine feet tall, and the dog had torn off all the clothing and some of the

skin. It was not quite dead, but twitched silently and spasmodically while its chest heaved in

monstrous unison with the mad piping of the expectant whippoorwills outside. Bits of shoe-

leather and fragments of apparel were scattered about the room, and just inside the window

an empty canvas sack lay where it had evidently been thrown. Near the central desk a

revolver had fallen, a dented but undischarged cartridge later explaining why it had not been

fired. The thing itself, however, crowded out all other images at the time. It would be trite and

not wholly accurate to say that no human pen could describe it, but one may properly say that

it could not be vividly visualised by anyone whose ideas of aspect and contour are too closely

bound up with the common life-forms of this planet and of the three known dimensions. It was

partly human, beyond a doubt, with very man-like hands and head, and the goatish, chinless

face had the stamp of the Whateleys upon it. But the torso and lower parts of the body were

teratologically fabulous, so that only generous clothing could ever have enabled it to walk on

earth unchallenged or uneradicated.

Above the waist it was semi-anthropomorphic; though its chest, where the dog‘s rending paws

still rested watchfully, had the leathery, reticulated hide of a crocodile or alligator. The back

was piebald with yellow and black, and dimly suggested the squamous covering of certain

snakes. Below the waist, though, it was the worst; for here all human resemblance left off and

sheer phantasy began. The skin was thickly covered with coarse black fur, and from the

abdomen a score of long greenish-grey tentacles with red sucking mouths protruded limply.

Their arrangement was odd, and seemed to follow the symmetries of some cosmic geometry

unknown to earth or the solar system. On each of the hips, deep set in a kind of pinkish,

ciliated orbit, was what seemed to be a rudimentary eye; whilst in lieu of a tail there depended

a kind of trunk or feeler with purple annular markings, and with many evidences of being an

undeveloped mouth or throat. The limbs, save for their black fur, roughly resembled the hind

legs of prehistoric earth‘s giant saurians; and terminated in ridgy-veined pads that were

neither hooves nor claws. When the thing breathed, its tail and tentacles rhythmically changed

colour, as if from some circulatory cause normal to the non-human side of its ancestry. In the

tentacles this was observable as a deepening of the greenish tinge, whilst in the tail it was

manifest as a yellowish appearance which alternated with a sickly greyish-white in the spaces

between the purple rings. Of genuine blood there was none; only the foetid greenish-yellow

ichor which trickled along the painted floor beyond the radius of the stickiness, and left a

curious discolouration behind it.

As the presence of the three men seemed to rouse the dying thing, it began to mumble

without turning or raising its head. Dr. Armitage made no written record of its mouthings, but

asserts confidently that nothing in English was uttered. At first the syllables defied all

correlation with any speech of earth, but toward the last there came some disjointed

fragments evidently taken from the Necronomicon, that monstrous blasphemy in quest of

which the thing had perished. These fragments, as Armitage recalls them, ran something like

―N’gai, n’gha’ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y’hah; Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth. . . .” They trailed off into

nothingness as the whippoorwills shrieked in rhythmical crescendoes of unholy anticipation.

Then came a halt in the gasping, and the dog raised its head in a long, lugubrious howl. A

change came over the yellow, goatish face of the prostrate thing, and the great black eyes fell

in appallingly. Outside the window the shrilling of the whippoorwills had suddenly ceased, and

above the murmurs of the gathering crowd there came the sound of a panic-struck whirring

and fluttering. Against the moon vast clouds of feathery watchers rose and raced from sight,

frantic at that which they had sought for prey.

All at once the dog started up abruptly, gave a frightened bark, and leaped nervously out of

the window by which it had entered. A cry rose from the crowd, and Dr. Armitage shouted to

the men outside that no one must be admitted till the police or medical examiner came. He

was thankful that the windows were just too high to permit of peering in, and drew the dark

curtains carefully down over each one. By this time two policemen had arrived; and Dr.

Morgan, meeting them in the vestibule, was urging them for their own sakes to postpone

entrance to the stench-filled reading-room till the examiner came and the prostrate thing could

be covered up.

Meanwhile frightful changes were taking place on the floor. One need not describe the kind

and rate of shrinkage and disintegration that occurred before the eyes of Dr. Armitage and

Professor Rice; but it is permissible to say that, aside from the external appearance of face

and hands, the really human element in Wilbur Whateley must have been very small. When

the medical examiner came, there was only a sticky whitish mass on the painted boards, and

the monstrous odour had nearly disappeared. Apparently Whateley had had no skull or bony

skeleton; at least, in any true or stable sense. He had taken somewhat after his unknown

father.

VII.

Yet all this was only the prologue of the actual Dunwich horror. Formalities were gone through

by bewildered officials, abnormal details were duly kept from press and public, and men were

sent to Dunwich and Aylesbury to look up property and notify any who might be heirs of the

late Wilbur Whateley. They found the countryside in great agitation, both because of the

growing rumblings beneath the domed hills, and because of the unwonted stench and the

surging, lapping sounds which came increasingly from the great empty shell formed by

Whateley‘s boarded-up farmhouse. Earl Sawyer, who tended the horse and cattle during

Wilbur‘s absence, had developed a woefully acute case of nerves. The officials devised

excuses not to enter the noisome boarded place; and were glad to confine their survey of the

deceased‘s living quarters, the newly mended sheds, to a single visit. They filed a ponderous

report at the court-house in Aylesbury, and litigations concerning heirship are said to be still in

progress amongst the innumerable Whateleys, decayed and undecayed, of the upper

Miskatonic valley.

An almost interminable manuscript in strange characters, written in a huge ledger and

adjudged a sort of diary because of the spacing and the variations in ink and penmanship,

presented a baffling puzzle to those who found it on the old bureau which served as its

owner‘s desk. After a week of debate it was sent to Miskatonic University, together with the

deceased‘s collection of strange books, for study and possible translation; but even the best

linguists soon saw that it was not likely to be unriddled with ease. No trace of the ancient gold

with which Wilbur and Old Whateley always paid their debts has yet been discovered.

It was in the dark of September 9th that the horror broke loose. The hill noises had been very

pronounced during the evening, and dogs barked frantically all night. Early risers on the 10th

noticed a peculiar stench in the air. About seven o‘clock Luther Brown, the hired boy at

George Corey‘s, between Cold Spring Glen and the village, rushed frenziedly back from his

morning trip to Ten-Acre Meadow with the cows. He was almost convulsed with fright as he

stumbled into the kitchen; and in the yard outside the no less frightened herd were pawing

and lowing pitifully, having followed the boy back in the panic they shared with him. Between

gasps Luther tried to stammer out his tale to Mrs. Corey.

―Up thar in the rud beyont the glen, Mis‘ Corey—they‘s suthin‘ ben thar! It smells like thunder,

an‘ all the bushes an‘ little trees is pushed back from the rud like they‘d a haouse ben moved

along of it. An‘ that ain‘t the wust, nuther. They‘s prints in the rud, Mis‘ Corey—great raound

prints as big as barrel-heads, all sunk daown deep like a elephant had ben along, only they’s

a sight more nor four feet could make! I looked at one or two afore I run, an‘ I see every one

was covered with lines spreadin‘ aout from one place, like as if big palm-leaf fans—twict or

three times as big as any they is—hed of ben paounded daown into the rud. An‘ the smell was

awful, like what it is araound Wizard Whateley‘s ol‘ haouse. . . .‖

Here he faltered, and seemed to shiver afresh with the fright that had sent him flying home.

Mrs. Corey, unable to extract more information, began telephoning the neighbours; thus

starting on its rounds the overture of panic that heralded the major terrors. When she got Sally

Sawyer, housekeeper at Seth Bishop‘s, the nearest place to Whateley‘s, it became her turn to

listen instead of transmit; for Sally‘s boy Chauncey, who slept poorly, had been up on the hill

toward Whateley‘s, and had dashed back in terror after one look at the place, and at the

pasturage where Mr. Bishop‘s cows had been left out all night.

―Yes, Mis‘ Corey,‖ came Sally‘s tremulous voice over the party wire, ―Cha‘ncey he just come

back a-postin‘, and couldn‘t haff talk fer bein‘ scairt! He says Ol‘ Whateley‘s haouse is all

blowed up, with the timbers scattered raound like they‘d ben dynamite inside; only the bottom

floor ain‘t through, but is all covered with a kind o‘ tar-like stuff that smells awful an‘ drips

daown offen the aidges onto the graoun‘ whar the side timbers is blown away. An‘ they‘s awful

kinder marks in the yard, tew—great raound marks bigger raound than a hogshead, an‘ all

sticky with stuff like is on the blowed-up haouse. Cha‘ncey he says they leads off into the

medders, whar a great swath wider‘n a barn is matted daown, an‘ all the stun walls tumbled

every whichway wherever it goes.

―An‘ he says, says he, Mis‘ Corey, as haow he sot to look fer Seth‘s caows, frighted ez he

was; an‘ faound ‘em in the upper pasture nigh the Devil‘s Hop Yard in an awful shape. Haff on

‘em‘s clean gone, an‘ nigh haff o‘ them that‘s left is sucked most dry o‘ blood, with sores on

‘em like they‘s ben on Whateley‘s cattle ever senct Lavinny‘s black brat was born. Seth he‘s

gone aout naow to look at ‘em, though I‘ll vaow he wun‘t keer ter git very nigh Wizard

Whateley‘s! Cha‘ncey didn‘t look keerful ter see whar the big matted-daown swath led arter it

leff the pasturage, but he says he thinks it p‘inted towards the glen rud to the village.

―I tell ye, Mis‘ Corey, they‘s suthin‘ abroad as hadn‘t orter be abroad, an‘ I for one think that

black Wilbur Whateley, as come to the bad eend he desarved, is at the bottom of the breedin‘

of it. He wa‘n‘t all human hisself, I allus says to everybody; an‘ I think he an‘ Ol‘ Whateley

must a raised suthin‘ in that there nailed-up haouse as ain‘t even so human as he was. They‘s

allus ben unseen things araound Dunwich—livin‘ things—as ain‘t human an‘ ain‘t good fer

human folks.

―The graoun‘ was a-talkin‘ lass night, an‘ towards mornin‘ Cha‘ncey he heerd the

whippoorwills so laoud in Col‘ Spring Glen he couldn‘t sleep nun. Then he thought he heerd

another faint-like saound over towards Wizard Whateley‘s—a kinder rippin‘ or tearin‘ o‘ wood,

like some big box er crate was bein‘ opened fur off. What with this an‘ that, he didn‘t git to

sleep at all till sunup, an‘ no sooner was he up this mornin‘, but he‘s got to go over to

Whateley‘s an‘ see what‘s the matter. He see enough, I tell ye, Mis‘ Corey! This dun‘t mean no

good, an‘ I think as all the men-folks ought to git up a party an‘ do suthin‘. I know suthin‘

awful‘s abaout, an‘ feel my time is nigh, though only Gawd knows jest what it is.

―Did your Luther take accaount o‘ whar them big tracks led tew? No? Wal, Mis‘ Corey, ef they

was on the glen rud this side o‘ the glen, an‘ ain‘t got to your haouse yet, I calc‘late they must

go into the glen itself. They would do that. I allus says Col‘ Spring Glen ain‘t no healthy nor

decent place. The whippoorwills an‘ fireflies there never did act like they was creaters o‘

Gawd, an‘ they‘s them as says ye kin hear strange things a-rushin‘ an‘ a-talkin‘ in the air

daown thar ef ye stand in the right place, atween the rock falls an‘ Bear‘s Den.‖

By that noon fully three-quarters of the men and boys of Dunwich were trooping over the

roads and meadows between the new-made Whateley ruins and Cold Spring Glen, examining

in horror the vast, monstrous prints, the maimed Bishop cattle, the strange, noisome wreck of

the farmhouse, and the bruised, matted vegetation of the fields and roadsides. Whatever had

burst loose upon the world had assuredly gone down into the great sinister ravine; for all the

trees on the banks were bent and broken, and a great avenue had been gouged in the

precipice-hanging underbrush. It was as though a house, launched by an avalanche, had slid

down through the tangled growths of the almost vertical slope. From below no sound came,

but only a distant, undefinable foetor; and it is not to be wondered at that the men preferred to

stay on the edge and argue, rather than descend and beard the unknown Cyclopean horror in

its lair. Three dogs that were with the party had barked furiously at first, but seemed cowed

and reluctant when near the glen. Someone telephoned the news to the Aylesbury Transcript;

but the editor, accustomed to wild tales from Dunwich, did no more than concoct a humorous

paragraph about it; an item soon afterward reproduced by the Associated Press.

That night everyone went home, and every house and barn was barricaded as stoutly as

possible. Needless to say, no cattle were allowed to remain in open pasturage. About two in

the morning a frightful stench and the savage barking of the dogs awakened the household at

Elmer Frye‘s, on the eastern edge of Cold Spring Glen, and all agreed that they could hear a

sort of muffled swishing or lapping sound from somewhere outside. Mrs. Frye proposed

telephoning the neighbours, and Elmer was about to agree when the noise of splintering

wood burst in upon their deliberations. It came, apparently, from the barn; and was quickly

followed by a hideous screaming and stamping amongst the cattle. The dogs slavered and

crouched close to the feet of the fear-numbed family. Frye lit a lantern through force of habit,

but knew it would be death to go out into that black farmyard. The children and the womenfolk

whimpered, kept from screaming by some obscure, vestigial instinct of defence which told

them their lives depended on silence. At last the noise of the cattle subsided to a pitiful

moaning, and a great snapping, crashing, and crackling ensued. The Fryes, huddled together

in the sitting-room, did not dare to move until the last echoes died away far down in Cold

Spring Glen. Then, amidst the dismal moans from the stable and the daemoniac piping of late

whippoorwills in the glen, Selina Frye tottered to the telephone and spread what news she

could of the second phase of the horror.

The next day all the countryside was in a panic; and cowed, uncommunicative groups came

and went where the fiendish thing had occurred. Two titan swaths of destruction stretched

from the glen to the Frye farmyard, monstrous prints covered the bare patches of ground, and

one side of the old red barn had completely caved in. Of the cattle, only a quarter could be

found and identified. Some of these were in curious fragments, and all that survived had to be

shot. Earl Sawyer suggested that help be asked from Aylesbury or Arkham, but others

maintained it would be of no use. Old Zebulon Whateley, of a branch that hovered about half

way between soundness and decadence, made darkly wild suggestions about rites that ought

to be practiced on the hill-tops. He came of a line where tradition ran strong, and his

memories of chantings in the great stone circles were not altogether connected with Wilbur

and his grandfather.

Darkness fell upon a stricken countryside too passive to organise for real defence. In a few

cases closely related families would band together and watch in the gloom under one roof;

but in general there was only a repetition of the barricading of the night before, and a futile,

ineffective gesture of loading muskets and setting pitchforks handily about. Nothing, however,

occurred except some hill noises; and when the day came there were many who hoped that

the new horror had gone as swiftly as it had come. There were even bold souls who proposed

an offensive expedition down in the glen, though they did not venture to set an actual

example to the still reluctant majority.

When night came again the barricading was repeated, though there was less huddling

together of families. In the morning both the Frye and the Seth Bishop households reported

excitement among the dogs and vague sounds and stenches from afar, while early explorers

noted with horror a fresh set of the monstrous tracks in the road skirting Sentinel Hill. As

before, the sides of the road shewed a bruising indicative of the blasphemously stupendous

bulk of the horror; whilst the conformation of the tracks seemed to argue a passage in two

directions, as if the moving mountain had come from Cold Spring Glen and returned to it

along the same path. At the base of the hill a thirty-foot swath of crushed shrubbery saplings

led steeply upward, and the seekers gasped when they saw that even the most perpendicular

places did not deflect the inexorable trail. Whatever the horror was, it could scale a sheer

stony cliff of almost complete verticality; and as the investigators climbed around to the hill‘s

summit by safer routes they saw that the trail ended—or rather, reversed—there.

It was here that the Whateleys used to build their hellish fires and chant their hellish rituals by

the table-like stone on May-Eve and Hallowmass. Now that very stone formed the centre of a

vast space thrashed around by the mountainous horror, whilst upon its slightly concave

surface was a thick and foetid deposit of the same tarry stickiness observed on the floor of the

ruined Whateley farmhouse when the horror escaped. Men looked at one another and

muttered. Then they looked down the hill. Apparently the horror had descended by a route

much the same as that of its ascent. To speculate was futile. Reason, logic, and normal ideas

of motivation stood confounded. Only old Zebulon, who was not with the group, could have

done justice to the situation or suggested a plausible explanation.

Thursday night began much like the others, but it ended less happily. The whippoorwills in the

glen had screamed with such unusual persistence that many could not sleep, and about 3

A.M. all the party telephones rang tremulously. Those who took down their receivers heard a

fright-mad voice shriek out, ―Help, oh, my Gawd! . . .‖ and some thought a crashing sound

followed the breaking off of the exclamation. There was nothing more. No one dared do

anything, and no one knew till morning whence the call came. Then those who had heard it

called everyone on the line, and found that only the Fryes did not reply. The truth appeared an

hour later, when a hastily assembled group of armed men trudged out to the Frye place at the

head of the glen. It was horrible, yet hardly a surprise. There were more swaths and

monstrous prints, but there was no longer any house. It had caved in like an egg-shell, and

amongst the ruins nothing living or dead could be discovered. Only a stench and a tarry

stickiness. The Elmer Fryes had been erased from Dunwich.

VIII.

In the meantime a quieter yet even more spiritually poignant phase of the horror had been

blackly unwinding itself behind the closed door of a shelf-lined room in Arkham. The curious

manuscript record or diary of Wilbur Whateley, delivered to Miskatonic University for

translation, had caused much worry and bafflement among the experts in languages both

ancient and modern; its very alphabet, notwithstanding a general resemblance to the heavily

shaded Arabic used in Mesopotamia, being absolutely unknown to any available authority.

The final conclusion of the linguists was that the text represented an artificial alphabet, giving

the effect of a cipher; though none of the usual methods of cryptographic solution seemed to

furnish any clue, even when applied on the basis of every tongue the writer might conceivably

have used. The ancient books taken from Whateley‘s quarters, while absorbingly interesting

and in several cases promising to open up new and terrible lines of research among

philosophers and men of science, were of no assistance whatever in this matter. One of them,

a heavy tome with an iron clasp, was in another unknown alphabet—this one of a very

different cast, and resembling Sanscrit more than anything else. The old ledger was at length

given wholly into the charge of Dr. Armitage, both because of his peculiar interest in the

Whateley matter, and because of his wide linguistic learning and skill in the mystical formulae

of antiquity and the Middle Ages.

Armitage had an idea that the alphabet might be something esoterically used by certain

forbidden cults which have come down from old times, and which have inherited many forms

and traditions from the wizards of the Saracenic world. That question, however, he did not

deem vital; since it would be unnecessary to know the origin of the symbols if, as he

suspected, they were used as a cipher in a modern language. It was his belief that,

considering the great amount of text involved, the writer would scarcely have wished the

trouble of using another speech than his own, save perhaps in certain special formulae and

incantations. Accordingly he attacked the manuscript with the preliminary assumption that the

bulk of it was in English.

Dr. Armitage knew, from the repeated failures of his colleagues, that the riddle was a deep

and complex one; and that no simple mode of solution could merit even a trial. All through late

August he fortified himself with the massed lore of cryptography; drawing upon the fullest

resources of his own library, and wading night after night amidst the arcana of Trithemius‘

Poligraphia, Giambattista Porta‘s De Furtivis Literarum Notis, De Vigenère‘s Traité des

Chiffres, Falconer‘s Cryptomenysis Patefacta, Davys‘ and Thicknesse‘s eighteenth-century

treatises, and such fairly modern authorities as Blair, von Marten, and Klüber‘s Kryptographik.

He interspersed his study of the books with attacks on the manuscript itself, and in time

became convinced that he had to deal with one of those subtlest and most ingenious of

cryptograms, in which many separate lists of corresponding letters are arranged like the

multiplication table, and the message built up with arbitrary key-words known only to the

initiated. The older authorities seemed rather more helpful than the newer ones, and Armitage

concluded that the code of the manuscript was one of great antiquity, no doubt handed down

through a long line of mystical experimenters. Several times he seemed near daylight, only to

be set back by some unforeseen obstacle. Then, as September approached, the clouds

began to clear. Certain letters, as used in certain parts of the manuscript, emerged definitely

and unmistakably; and it became obvious that the text was indeed in English.

On the evening of September 2nd the last major barrier gave way, and Dr. Armitage read for

the first time a continuous passage of Wilbur Whateley‘s annals. It was in truth a diary, as all

had thought; and it was couched in a style clearly shewing the mixed occult erudition and

general illiteracy of the strange being who wrote it. Almost the first long passage that Armitage

deciphered, an entry dated November 26, 1916, proved highly startling and disquieting. It was

written, he remembered, by a child of three and a half who looked like a lad of twelve or

thirteen.

―Today learned the Aklo for the Sabaoth,‖ it ran, ―which did not like, it being

answerable from the hill and not from the air. That upstairs more ahead of me than

I had thought it would be, and is not like to have much earth brain. Shot Elam

Hutchins‘ collie Jack when he went to bite me, and Elam says he would kill me if he

dast. I guess he won‘t. Grandfather kept me saying the Dho formula last night, and

I think I saw the inner city at the 2 magnetic poles. I shall go to those poles when

the earth is cleared off, if I can‘t break through with the Dho-Hna formula when I

commit it. They from the air told me at Sabbat that it will be years before I can clear

off the earth, and I guess grandfather will be dead then, so I shall have to learn all

the angles of the planes and all the formulas between the Yr and the Nhhngr. They

from outside will help, but they cannot take body without human blood. That

upstairs looks it will have the right cast. I can see it a little when I make the Voorish

sign or blow the powder of Ibn Ghazi at it, and it is near like them at May-Eve on

the Hill. The other face may wear off some. I wonder how I shall look when the

earth is cleared and there are no earth beings on it. He that came with the Aklo

Sabaoth said I may be transfigured, there being much of outside to work on.‖

Morning found Dr. Armitage in a cold sweat of terror and a frenzy of wakeful concentration. He

had not left the manuscript all night, but sat at his table under the electric light turning page

after page with shaking hands as fast as he could decipher the cryptic text. He had nervously

telephoned his wife he would not be home, and when she brought him a breakfast from the

house he could scarcely dispose of a mouthful. All that day he read on, now and then halted

maddeningly as a reapplication of the complex key became necessary. Lunch and dinner

were brought him, but he ate only the smallest fraction of either. Toward the middle of the next

night he drowsed off in his chair, but soon woke out of a tangle of nightmares almost as

hideous as the truths and menaces to man‘s existence that he had uncovered.

On the morning of September 4th Professor Rice and Dr. Morgan insisted on seeing him for a

while, and departed trembling and ashen-grey. That evening he went to bed, but slept only

fitfully. Wednesday—the next day—he was back at the manuscript, and began to take copious

notes both from the current sections and from those he had already deciphered. In the small

hours of that night he slept a little in an easy-chair in his office, but was at the manuscript

again before dawn. Some time before noon his physician, Dr. Hartwell, called to see him and

insisted that he cease work. He refused; intimating that it was of the most vital importance for

him to complete the reading of the diary, and promising an explanation in due course of time.

That evening, just as twilight fell, he finished his terrible perusal and sank back exhausted.

His wife, bringing his dinner, found him in a half-comatose state; but he was conscious

enough to warn her off with a sharp cry when he saw her eyes wander toward the notes he

had taken. Weakly rising, he gathered up the scribbled papers and sealed them all in a great

envelope, which he immediately placed in his inside coat pocket. He had sufficient strength to

get home, but was so clearly in need of medical aid that Dr. Hartwell was summoned at once.

As the doctor put him to bed he could only mutter over and over again, ―But what, in God’s

name, can we do?”

Dr. Armitage slept, but was partly delirious the next day. He made no explanations to Hartwell,

but in his calmer moments spoke of the imperative need of a long conference with Rice and

Morgan. His wilder wanderings were very startling indeed, including frantic appeals that

something in a boarded-up farmhouse be destroyed, and fantastic references to some plan

for the extirpation of the entire human race and all animal and vegetable life from the earth by

some terrible elder race of beings from another dimension. He would shout that the world was

in danger, since the Elder Things wished to strip it and drag it away from the solar system and

cosmos of matter into some other plane or phase of entity from which it had once fallen,

vigintillions of aeons ago. At other times he would call for the dreaded Necronomicon and the

Daemonolatreia of Remigius, in which he seemed hopeful of finding some formula to check

the peril he conjured up.

―Stop them, stop them!‖ he would shout. ―Those Whateleys meant to let them in, and the

worst of all is left! Tell Rice and Morgan we must do something—it‘s a blind business, but I

know how to make the powder. . . . It hasn‘t been fed since the second of August, when

Wilbur came here to his death, and at that rate. . . .‖

But Armitage had a sound physique despite his seventy-three years, and slept off his disorder

that night without developing any real fever. He woke late Friday, clear of head, though sober

with a gnawing fear and tremendous sense of responsibility. Saturday afternoon he felt able to

go over to the library and summon Rice and Morgan for a conference, and the rest of that day

and evening the three men tortured their brains in the wildest speculation and the most

desperate debate. Strange and terrible books were drawn voluminously from the stack

shelves and from secure places of storage; and diagrams and formulae were copied with

feverish haste and in bewildering abundance. Of scepticism there was none. All three had

seen the body of Wilbur Whateley as it lay on the floor in a room of that very building, and

after that not one of them could feel even slightly inclined to treat the diary as a madman‘s

raving.

Opinions were divided as to notifying the Massachusetts State Police, and the negative finally

won. There were things involved which simply could not be believed by those who had not

seen a sample, as indeed was made clear during certain subsequent investigations. Late at

night the conference disbanded without having developed a definite plan, but all day Sunday

Armitage was busy comparing formulae and mixing chemicals obtained from the college

laboratory. The more he reflected on the hellish diary, the more he was inclined to doubt the

efficacy of any material agent in stamping out the entity which Wilbur Whateley had left

behind him—the earth-threatening entity which, unknown to him, was to burst forth in a few

hours and become the memorable Dunwich horror.

Monday was a repetition of Sunday with Dr. Armitage, for the task in hand required an infinity

of research and experiment. Further consultations of the monstrous diary brought about

various changes of plan, and he knew that even in the end a large amount of uncertainty must

remain. By Tuesday he had a definite line of action mapped out, and believed he would try a

trip to Dunwich within a week. Then, on Wednesday, the great shock came. Tucked obscurely

away in a corner of the Arkham Advertiser was a facetious little item from the Associated

Press, telling what a record-breaking monster the bootleg whiskey of Dunwich had raised up.

Armitage, half stunned, could only telephone for Rice and Morgan. Far into the night they

discussed, and the next day was a whirlwind of preparation on the part of them all. Armitage

knew he would be meddling with terrible powers, yet saw that there was no other way to

annul the deeper and more malign meddling which others had done before him.

IX.

Friday morning Armitage, Rice, and Morgan set out by motor for Dunwich, arriving at the

village about one in the afternoon. The day was pleasant, but even in the brightest sunlight a

kind of quiet dread and portent seemed to hover about the strangely domed hills and the

deep, shadowy ravines of the stricken region. Now and then on some mountain-top a gaunt

circle of stones could be glimpsed against the sky. From the air of hushed fright at Osborn‘s

store they knew something hideous had happened, and soon learned of the annihilation of the

Elmer Frye house and family. Throughout that afternoon they rode around Dunwich;

questioning the natives concerning all that had occurred, and seeing for themselves with

rising pangs of horror the drear Frye ruins with their lingering traces of the tarry stickiness, the

blasphemous tracks in the Frye yard, the wounded Seth Bishop cattle, and the enormous

swaths of disturbed vegetation in various places. The trail up and down Sentinel Hill seemed

to Armitage of almost cataclysmic significance, and he looked long at the sinister altar-like

stone on the summit.

At length the visitors, apprised of a party of State Police which had come from Aylesbury that

morning in response to the first telephone reports of the Frye tragedy, decided to seek out the

officers and compare notes as far as practicable. This, however, they found more easily

planned than performed; since no sign of the party could be found in any direction. There had

been five of them in a car, but now the car stood empty near the ruins in the Frye yard. The

natives, all of whom had talked with the policemen, seemed at first as perplexed as Armitage

and his companions. Then old Sam Hutchins thought of something and turned pale, nudging

Fred Farr and pointing to the dank, deep hollow that yawned close by.

―Gawd,‖ he gasped, ―I telled ‘em not ter go daown into the glen, an‘ I never thought nobody‘d

dew it with them tracks an‘ that smell an‘ the whippoorwills a-screechin‘ daown thar in the dark

o‘ noonday. . . .‖

A cold shudder ran through natives and visitors alike, and every ear seemed strained in a kind

of instinctive, unconscious listening. Armitage, now that he had actually come upon the horror

and its monstrous work, trembled with the responsibility he felt to be his. Night would soon

fall, and it was then that the mountainous blasphemy lumbered upon its eldritch course.

Negotium perambulans in tenebris. . . . The old librarian rehearsed the formulae he had

memorised, and clutched the paper containing the alternative one he had not memorised. He

saw that his electric flashlight was in working order. Rice, beside him, took from a valise a

metal sprayer of the sort used in combating insects; whilst Morgan uncased the big-game rifle

on which he relied despite his colleague‘s warnings that no material weapon would be of help.

Armitage, having read the hideous diary, knew painfully well what kind of a manifestation to

expect; but he did not add to the fright of the Dunwich people by giving any hints or clues. He

hoped that it might be conquered without any revelation to the world of the monstrous thing it

had escaped. As the shadows gathered, the natives commenced to disperse homeward,

anxious to bar themselves indoors despite the present evidence that all human locks and

bolts were useless before a force that could bend trees and crush houses when it chose.

They shook their heads at the visitors‘ plan to stand guard at the Frye ruins near the glen; and

as they left, had little expectancy of ever seeing the watchers again.

There were rumblings under the hills that night, and the whippoorwills piped threateningly.

Once in a while a wind, sweeping up out of Cold Spring Glen, would bring a touch of ineffable

foetor to the heavy night air; such a foetor as all three of the watchers had smelled once

before, when they stood above a dying thing that had passed for fifteen years and a half as a

human being. But the looked-for terror did not appear. Whatever was down there in the glen

was biding its time, and Armitage told his colleagues it would be suicidal to try to attack it in

the dark.

Morning came wanly, and the night-sounds ceased. It was a grey, bleak day, with now and

then a drizzle of rain; and heavier and heavier clouds seemed to be piling themselves up

beyond the hills to the northwest. The men from Arkham were undecided what to do. Seeking

shelter from the increasing rainfall beneath one of the few undestroyed Frye outbuildings,

they debated the wisdom of waiting, or of taking the aggressive and going down into the glen

in quest of their nameless, monstrous quarry. The downpour waxed in heaviness, and distant

peals of thunder sounded from far horizons. Sheet lightning shimmered, and then a forky bolt

flashed near at hand, as if descending into the accursed glen itself. The sky grew very dark,

and the watchers hoped that the storm would prove a short, sharp one followed by clear

weather.

It was still gruesomely dark when, not much over an hour later, a confused babel of voices

sounded down the road. Another moment brought to view a frightened group of more than a

dozen men, running, shouting, and even whimpering hysterically. Someone in the lead began

sobbing out words, and the Arkham men started violently when those words developed a

coherent form.

―Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd,‖ the voice choked out. ―It‘s a-goin‘ agin, an’ this time by day! It‘s

aout—it‘s aout an‘ a-movin‘ this very minute, an‘ only the Lord knows when it‘ll be on us all!‖

The speaker panted into silence, but another took up his message.

―Nigh on a haour ago Zeb Whateley here heerd the ‘phone a-ringin‘, an‘ it was Mis‘ Corey,

George‘s wife, that lives daown by the junction. She says the hired boy Luther was aout drivin‘

in the caows from the storm arter the big bolt, when he see all the trees a-bendin‘ at the

maouth o‘ the glen—opposite side ter this—an‘ smelt the same awful smell like he smelt when

he faound the big tracks las‘ Monday mornin‘. An‘ she says he says they was a swishin‘,

lappin‘ sound, more nor what the bendin‘ trees an‘ bushes could make, an‘ all on a suddent

the trees along the rud begun ter git pushed one side, an‘ they was a awful stompin‘ an‘

splashin‘ in the mud. But mind ye, Luther he didn‘t see nothin‘ at all, only just the bendin‘ trees

an‘ underbrush.

―Then fur ahead where Bishop‘s Brook goes under the rud he heerd a awful creakin‘ an‘

strainin‘ on the bridge, an‘ says he could tell the saound o‘ wood a-startin‘ to crack an‘ split.

An‘ all the whiles he never see a thing, only them trees an‘ bushes a-bendin‘. An‘ when the

swishin‘ saound got very fur off—on the rud towards Wizard Whateley‘s an‘ Sentinel Hill—

Luther he had the guts ter step up whar he‘d heerd it furst an‘ look at the graound. It was all

mud an‘ water, an‘ the sky was dark, an‘ the rain was wipin‘ aout all tracks abaout as fast as

could be; but beginnin‘ at the glen maouth, whar the trees had moved, they was still some o‘

them awful prints big as bar‘ls like he seen Monday.‖

At this point the first excited speaker interrupted.

―But that ain‘t the trouble naow—that was only the start. Zeb here was callin‘ folks up an‘

everybody was a-listenin‘ in when a call from Seth Bishop‘s cut in. His haousekeeper Sally

was carryin‘ on fit ter kill—she‘d jest seed the trees a-bendin‘ beside the rud, an‘ says they

was a kind o‘ mushy saound, like a elephant puffin‘ an‘ treadin‘, a-headin‘ fer the haouse.

Then she up an‘ spoke suddent of a fearful smell, an‘ says her boy Cha‘ncey was a-screamin‘

as haow it was jest like what he smelt up to the Whateley rewins Monday mornin‘. An‘ the

dogs was all barkin‘ an‘ whinin‘ awful.

―An‘ then she let aout a turrible yell, an‘ says the shed daown the rud had jest caved in like the

storm hed blowed it over, only the wind wa‘n‘t strong enough to dew that. Everybody was a-

listenin‘, an‘ we could hear lots o‘ folks on the wire a-gaspin‘. All to onct Sally she yelled agin,

an‘ says the front yard picket fence hed just crumbled up, though they wa‘n‘t no sign o‘ what

done it. Then everybody on the line could hear Cha‘ncey an‘ ol‘ Seth Bishop a-yellin‘ tew, an‘

Sally was shriekin‘ aout that suthin‘ heavy hed struck the haouse—not lightnin‘ nor nothin‘, but

suthin‘ heavy agin the front, that kep‘ a-launchin‘ itself agin an‘ agin, though ye couldn‘t see

nothin‘ aout the front winders. An‘ then . . . an‘ then . . .‖

Lines of fright deepened on every face; and Armitage, shaken as he was, had barely poise

enough to prompt the speaker.

―An‘ then . . . Sally she yelled aout, ‘O help, the haouse is a-cavin‘ in‘ . . . an‘ on the wire we

could hear a turrible crashin‘, an‘ a hull flock o‘ screamin‘ . . . jest like when Elmer Frye‘s place

was took, only wuss. . . .‖

The man paused, and another of the crowd spoke.

―That‘s all—not a saound nor squeak over the ‘phone arter that. Jest still-like. We that heerd it

got aout Fords an‘ wagons an‘ raounded up as many able-bodied menfolks as we could git, at

Corey‘s place, an‘ come up here ter see what yew thought best ter dew. Not but what I think

it‘s the Lord‘s jedgment fer our iniquities, that no mortal kin ever set aside.‖

Armitage saw that the time for positive action had come, and spoke decisively to the faltering

group of frightened rustics.

―We must follow it, boys.‖ He made his voice as reassuring as possible. ―I believe there‘s a

chance of putting it out of business. You men know that those Whateleys were wizards—well,

this thing is a thing of wizardry, and must be put down by the same means. I‘ve seen Wilbur

Whateley‘s diary and read some of the strange old books he used to read; and I think I know

the right kind of spell to recite to make the thing fade away. Of course, one can‘t be sure, but

we can always take a chance. It‘s invisible—I knew it would be—but there‘s a powder in this

long-distance sprayer that might make it shew up for a second. Later on we‘ll try it. It‘s a

frightful thing to have alive, but it isn‘t as bad as what Wilbur would have let in if he‘d lived

longer. You‘ll never know what the world has escaped. Now we‘ve only this one thing to fight,

and it can‘t multiply. It can, though, do a lot of harm; so we mustn‘t hesitate to rid the

community of it.

―We must follow it—and the way to begin is to go to the place that has just been wrecked. Let

somebody lead the way—I don‘t know your roads very well, but I‘ve an idea there might be a

shorter cut across lots. How about it?‖

The men shuffled about a moment, and then Earl Sawyer spoke softly, pointing with a grimy

finger through the steadily lessening rain.

―I guess ye kin git to Seth Bishop‘s quickest by cuttin‘ acrost the lower medder here, wadin‘

the brook at the low place, an‘ climbin‘ through Carrier‘s mowin‘ and the timber-lot beyont.

That comes aout on the upper rud mighty nigh Seth‘s—a leetle t‘other side.‖

Armitage, with Rice and Morgan, started to walk in the direction indicated; and most of the

natives followed slowly. The sky was growing lighter, and there were signs that the storm had

worn itself away. When Armitage inadvertently took a wrong direction, Joe Osborn warned

him and walked ahead to shew the right one. Courage and confidence were mounting; though

the twilight of the almost perpendicular wooded hill which lay toward the end of their short cut,

and among whose fantastic ancient trees they had to scramble as if up a ladder, put these

qualities to a severe test.

At length they emerged on a muddy road to find the sun coming out. They were a little beyond

the Seth Bishop place, but bent trees and hideously unmistakable tracks shewed what had

passed by. Only a few moments were consumed in surveying the ruins just around the bend.

It was the Frye incident all over again, and nothing dead or living was found in either of the

collapsed shells which had been the Bishop house and barn. No one cared to remain there

amidst the stench and tarry stickiness, but all turned instinctively to the line of horrible prints

leading on toward the wrecked Whateley farmhouse and the altar-crowned slopes of Sentinel

Hill.

As the men passed the site of Wilbur Whateley‘s abode they shuddered visibly, and seemed

again to mix hesitancy with their zeal. It was no joke tracking down something as big as a

house that one could not see, but that had all the vicious malevolence of a daemon. Opposite

the base of Sentinel Hill the tracks left the road, and there was a fresh bending and matting

visible along the broad swath marking the monster‘s former route to and from the summit.

Armitage produced a pocket telescope of considerable power and scanned the steep green

side of the hill. Then he handed the instrument to Morgan, whose sight was keener. After a

moment of gazing Morgan cried out sharply, passing the glass to Earl Sawyer and indicating a

certain spot on the slope with his finger. Sawyer, as clumsy as most non-users of optical

devices are, fumbled a while; but eventually focussed the lenses with Armitage‘s aid. When

he did so his cry was less restrained than Morgan‘s had been.

―Gawd almighty, the grass an‘ bushes is a-movin‘! It‘s a-goin‘ up—slow-like—creepin‘ up ter

the top this minute, heaven only knows what fur!‖

Then the germ of panic seemed to spread among the seekers. It was one thing to chase the

nameless entity, but quite another to find it. Spells might be all right—but suppose they

weren‘t? Voices began questioning Armitage about what he knew of the thing, and no reply

seemed quite to satisfy. Everyone seemed to feel himself in close proximity to phases of

Nature and of being utterly forbidden, and wholly outside the sane experience of mankind.

In the end the three men from Arkham—old, white-bearded Dr. Armitage, stocky, iron-grey

Professor Rice, and lean, youngish Dr. Morgan—ascended the mountain alone. After much

patient instruction regarding its focussing and use, they left the telescope with the frightened

group that remained in the road; and as they climbed they were watched closely by those

among whom the glass was passed around. It was hard going, and Armitage had to be

helped more than once. High above the toiling group the great swath trembled as its hellish

maker re-passed with snail-like deliberateness. Then it was obvious that the pursuers were

gaining.

Curtis Whateley—of the undecayed branch—was holding the telescope when the Arkham

party detoured radically from the swath. He told the crowd that the men were evidently trying

to get to a subordinate peak which overlooked the swath at a point considerably ahead of

where the shrubbery was now bending. This, indeed, proved to be true; and the party were

seen to gain the minor elevation only a short time after the invisible blasphemy had passed it.

Then Wesley Corey, who had taken the glass, cried out that Armitage was adjusting the

sprayer which Rice held, and that something must be about to happen. The crowd stirred

uneasily, recalling that this sprayer was expected to give the unseen horror a moment of

visibility. Two or three men shut their eyes, but Curtis Whateley snatched back the telescope

and strained his vision to the utmost. He saw that Rice, from the party‘s point of vantage

above and behind the entity, had an excellent chance of spreading the potent powder with

marvellous effect.

Those without the telescope saw only an instant‘s flash of grey cloud—a cloud about the size

of a moderately large building—near the top of the mountain. Curtis, who had held the

instrument, dropped it with a piercing shriek into the ankle-deep mud of the road. He reeled,

and would have crumpled to the ground had not two or three others seized and steadied him.

All he could do was moan half-inaudibly,

―Oh, oh, great Gawd . . . that . . . that . . .‖

There was a pandemonium of questioning, and only Henry Wheeler thought to rescue the

fallen telescope and wipe it clean of mud. Curtis was past all coherence, and even isolated

replies were almost too much for him.

―Bigger‘n a barn . . . all made o‘ squirmin‘ ropes . . . hull thing sort o‘ shaped like a hen‘s egg

bigger‘n anything, with dozens o‘ legs like hogsheads that haff shut up when they step . . .

nothin‘ solid abaout it—all like jelly, an‘ made o‘ sep‘rit wrigglin‘ ropes pushed clost together . .

. great bulgin‘ eyes all over it . . . ten or twenty maouths or trunks a-stickin‘ aout all along the

sides, big as stovepipes, an‘ all a-tossin‘ an‘ openin‘ an‘ shuttin‘ . . . all grey, with kinder blue or

purple rings . . . an’ Gawd in heaven—that haff face on top! . . .‖

This final memory, whatever it was, proved too much for poor Curtis; and he collapsed

completely before he could say more. Fred Farr and Will Hutchins carried him to the roadside

and laid him on the damp grass. Henry Wheeler, trembling, turned the rescued telescope on

the mountain to see what he might. Through the lenses were discernible three tiny figures,

apparently running toward the summit as fast as the steep incline allowed. Only these—

nothing more. Then everyone noticed a strangely unseasonable noise in the deep valley

behind, and even in the underbrush of Sentinel Hill itself. It was the piping of unnumbered

whippoorwills, and in their shrill chorus there seemed to lurk a note of tense and evil

expectancy.

Earl Sawyer now took the telescope and reported the three figures as standing on the

topmost ridge, virtually level with the altar-stone but at a considerable distance from it. One

figure, he said, seemed to be raising its hands above its head at rhythmic intervals; and as

Sawyer mentioned the circumstance the crowd seemed to hear a faint, half-musical sound

from the distance, as if a loud chant were accompanying the gestures. The weird silhouette

on that remote peak must have been a spectacle of infinite grotesqueness and

impressiveness, but no observer was in a mood for aesthetic appreciation. ―I guess he‘s

sayin‘ the spell,‖ whispered Wheeler as he snatched back the telescope. The whippoorwills

were piping wildly, and in a singularly curious irregular rhythm quite unlike that of the visible

ritual.

Suddenly the sunshine seemed to lessen without the intervention of any discernible cloud. It

was a very peculiar phenomenon, and was plainly marked by all. A rumbling sound seemed

brewing beneath the hills, mixed strangely with a concordant rumbling which clearly came

from the sky. Lightning flashed aloft, and the wondering crowd looked in vain for the portents

of storm. The chanting of the men from Arkham now became unmistakable, and Wheeler saw

through the glass that they were all raising their arms in the rhythmic incantation. From some

farmhouse far away came the frantic barking of dogs.

The change in the quality of the daylight increased, and the crowd gazed about the horizon in

wonder. A purplish darkness, born of nothing more than a spectral deepening of the sky‘s

blue, pressed down upon the rumbling hills. Then the lightning flashed again, somewhat

brighter than before, and the crowd fancied that it had shewed a certain mistiness around the

altar-stone on the distant height. No one, however, had been using the telescope at that

instant. The whippoorwills continued their irregular pulsation, and the men of Dunwich braced

themselves tensely against some imponderable menace with which the atmosphere seemed

surcharged.

Without warning came those deep, cracked, raucous vocal sounds which will never leave the

memory of the stricken group who heard them. Not from any human throat were they born, for

the organs of man can yield no such acoustic perversions. Rather would one have said they

came from the pit itself, had not their source been so unmistakably the altar-stone on the

peak. It is almost erroneous to call them sounds at all, since so much of their ghastly, infra-

bass timbre spoke to dim seats of consciousness and terror far subtler than the ear; yet one

must do so, since their form was indisputably though vaguely that of half-articulate words.

They were loud—loud as the rumblings and the thunder above which they echoed—yet did

they come from no visible being. And because imagination might suggest a conjectural source

in the world of non-visible beings, the huddled crowd at the mountain‘s base huddled still

closer, and winced as if in expectation of a blow.

―Ygnaiih . . . ygnaiih . . . thflthkh’ngha . . . Yog-Sothoth . . .” rang the hideous croaking out of

space. ―Y’bthnk . . . h’ehye—n’grkdl’lh. . . .”

The speaking impulse seemed to falter here, as if some frightful psychic struggle were going

on. Henry Wheeler strained his eye at the telescope, but saw only the three grotesquely

silhouetted human figures on the peak, all moving their arms furiously in strange gestures as

their incantation drew near its culmination. From what black wells of Acherontic fear or feeling,

from what unplumbed gulfs of extra-cosmic consciousness or obscure, long-latent heredity,

were those half-articulate thunder-croakings drawn? Presently they began to gather renewed

force and coherence as they grew in stark, utter, ultimate frenzy.

―Eh-ya-ya-ya-yahaah—e’yayayayaaaa . . . ngh’aaaaa . . . ngh’aaaa . . . h‘yuh . . . h‘yuh . . .

HELP! HELP! . . . ff—ff—ff—FATHER! FATHER! YOG-SOTHOTH! . . .‖

But that was all. The pallid group in the road, still reeling at the indisputably English syllables

that had poured thickly and thunderously down from the frantic vacancy beside that shocking

altar-stone, were never to hear such syllables again. Instead, they jumped violently at the

terrific report which seemed to rend the hills; the deafening, cataclysmic peal whose source,

be it inner earth or sky, no hearer was ever able to place. A single lightning-bolt shot from the

purple zenith to the altar-stone, and a great tidal wave of viewless force and indescribable

stench swept down from the hill to all the countryside. Trees, grass, and underbrush were

whipped into a fury; and the frightened crowd at the mountain‘s base, weakened by the lethal

foetor that seemed about to asphyxiate them, were almost hurled off their feet. Dogs howled

from the distance, green grass and foliage wilted to a curious, sickly yellow-grey, and over

field and forest were scattered the bodies of dead whippoorwills.

The stench left quickly, but the vegetation never came right again. To this day there is

something queer and unholy about the growths on and around that fearsome hill. Curtis

Whateley was only just regaining consciousness when the Arkham men came slowly down

the mountain in the beams of a sunlight once more brilliant and untainted. They were grave

and quiet, and seemed shaken by memories and reflections even more terrible than those

which had reduced the group of natives to a state of cowed quivering. In reply to a jumble of

questions they only shook their heads and reaffirmed one vital fact.

―The thing has gone forever,‖ Armitage said. ―It has been split up into what it was originally

made of, and can never exist again. It was an impossibility in a normal world. Only the least

fraction was really matter in any sense we know. It was like its father—and most of it has

gone back to him in some vague realm or dimension outside our material universe; some

vague abyss out of which only the most accursed rites of human blasphemy could ever have

called him for a moment on the hills.‖

There was a brief silence, and in that pause the scattered senses of poor Curtis Whateley

began to knit back into a sort of continuity; so that he put his hands to his head with a moan.

Memory seemed to pick itself up where it had left off, and the horror of the sight that had

prostrated him burst in upon him again.

―Oh, oh, my Gawd, that haff face—that haff face on top of it . . . that face with the red eyes an’

crinkly albino hair, an’ no chin, like the Whateleys . . . It was a octopus, centipede, spider kind

o’ thing, but they was a haff-shaped man’s face on top of it, an’ it looked like Wizard

Whateley’s, only it was yards an’ yards acrost. . . .”

He paused exhausted, as the whole group of natives stared in a bewilderment not quite

crystallised into fresh terror. Only old Zebulon Whateley, who wanderingly remembered

ancient things but who had been silent heretofore, spoke aloud.

―Fifteen year‘ gone,‖ he rambled, ―I heerd Ol‘ Whateley say as haow some day we‘d hear a

child o‘ Lavinny‘s a-callin‘ its father‘s name on the top o‘ Sentinel Hill. . . .‖

But Joe Osborn interrupted him to question the Arkham men anew.

―What was it anyhaow, an‘ haowever did young Wizard Whateley call it aout o‘ the air it come

from?‖

Armitage chose his words very carefully.

―It was—well, it was mostly a kind of force that doesn‘t belong in our part of space; a kind of

force that acts and grows and shapes itself by other laws than those of our sort of Nature. We

have no business calling in such things from outside, and only very wicked people and very

wicked cults ever try to. There was some of it in Wilbur Whateley himself—enough to make a

devil and a precocious monster of him, and to make his passing out a pretty terrible sight. I‘m

going to burn his accursed diary, and if you men are wise you‘ll dynamite that altar-stone up

there, and pull down all the rings of standing stones on the other hills. Things like that brought

down the beings those Whateleys were so fond of—the beings they were going to let in

tangibly to wipe out the human race and drag the earth off to some nameless place for some

nameless purpose.

―But as to this thing we‘ve just sent back—the Whateleys raised it for a terrible part in the

doings that were to come. It grew fast and big from the same reason that Wilbur grew fast and

big—but it beat him because it had a greater share of the outsideness in it. You needn‘t ask

The Whisperer in Darkness

(1930)

Bear in mind closely that I did not see any actual visual horror at the end. To say that a mental

shock was the cause of what I inferred—that last straw which sent me racing out of the lonely

Akeley farmhouse and through the wild domed hills of Vermont in a commandeered motor at

night—is to ignore the plainest facts of my final experience. Notwithstanding the deep extent

to which I shared the information and speculations of Henry Akeley, the things I saw and

heard, and the admitted vividness of the impression produced on me by these things, I cannot

prove even now whether I was right or wrong in my hideous inference. For after all, Akeley‘s

disappearance establishes nothing. People found nothing amiss in his house despite the

bullet-marks on the outside and inside. It was just as though he had walked out casually for a

ramble in the hills and failed to return. There was not even a sign that a guest had been there,

or that those horrible cylinders and machines had been stored in the study. That he had

mortally feared the crowded green hills and endless trickle of brooks among which he had

been born and reared, means nothing at all, either; for thousands are subject to just such

morbid fears. Eccentricity, moreover, could easily account for his strange acts and

apprehensions toward the last.

The whole matter began, so far as I am concerned, with the historic and unprecedented

Vermont floods of November 3, 1927. I was then, as now, an instructor of literature at

Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, and an enthusiastic amateur student of New

England folklore. Shortly after the flood, amidst the varied reports of hardship, suffering, and

organised relief which filled the press, there appeared certain odd stories of things found

floating in some of the swollen rivers; so that many of my friends embarked on curious

discussions and appealed to me to shed what light I could on the subject. I felt flattered at

having my folklore study taken so seriously, and did what I could to belittle the wild, vague

tales which seemed so clearly an outgrowth of old rustic superstitions. It amused me to find

several persons of education who insisted that some stratum of obscure, distorted fact might

underlie the rumours.

The tales thus brought to my notice came mostly through newspaper cuttings; though one

yarn had an oral source and was repeated to a friend of mine in a letter from his mother in

Hardwick, Vermont. The type of thing described was essentially the same in all cases, though

there seemed to be three separate instances involved—one connected with the Winooski

River near Montpelier, another attached to the West River in Windham County beyond

Newfane, and a third centring in the Passumpsic in Caledonia County above Lyndonville. Of

course many of the stray items mentioned other instances, but on analysis they all seemed to

boil down to these three. In each case country folk reported seeing one or more very bizarre

and disturbing objects in the surging waters that poured down from the unfrequented hills,

and there was a widespread tendency to connect these sights with a primitive, half-forgotten

cycle of whispered legend which old people resurrected for the occasion.

What people thought they saw were organic shapes not quite like any they had ever seen

before. Naturally, there were many human bodies washed along by the streams in that tragic

period; but those who described these strange shapes felt quite sure that they were not

human, despite some superficial resemblances in size and general outline. Nor, said the

witnesses, could they have been any kind of animal known to Vermont. They were pinkish

things about five feet long; with crustaceous bodies bearing vast pairs of dorsal fins or

membraneous wings and several sets of articulated limbs, and with a sort of convoluted

ellipsoid, covered with multitudes of very short antennae, where a head would ordinarily be. It

was really remarkable how closely the reports from different sources tended to coincide;

though the wonder was lessened by the fact that the old legends, shared at one time

throughout the hill country, furnished a morbidly vivid picture which might well have coloured

the imaginations of all the witnesses concerned. It was my conclusion that such witnesses—in

every case naive and simple backwoods folk—had glimpsed the battered and bloated bodies

of human beings or farm animals in the whirling currents; and had allowed the half-

remembered folklore to invest these pitiful objects with fantastic attributes.

The ancient folklore, while cloudy, evasive, and largely forgotten by the present generation,

was of a highly singular character, and obviously reflected the influence of still earlier Indian

tales. I knew it well, though I had never been in Vermont, through the exceedingly rare

monograph of Eli Davenport, which embraces material orally obtained prior to 1839 among

the oldest people of the state. This material, moreover, closely coincided with tales which I

had personally heard from elderly rustics in the mountains of New Hampshire. Briefly

summarised, it hinted at a hidden race of monstrous beings which lurked somewhere among

the remoter hills—in the deep woods of the highest peaks, and the dark valleys where

streams trickle from unknown sources. These beings were seldom glimpsed, but evidences of

their presence were reported by those who had ventured farther than usual up the slopes of

certain mountains or into certain deep, steep-sided gorges that even the wolves shunned.

There were queer footprints or claw-prints in the mud of brook-margins and barren patches,

and curious circles of stones, with the grass around them worn away, which did not seem to

have been placed or entirely shaped by Nature. There were, too, certain caves of

problematical depth in the sides of the hills; with mouths closed by boulders in a manner

scarcely accidental, and with more than an average quota of the queer prints leading both

toward and away from them—if indeed the direction of these prints could be justly estimated.

And worst of all, there were the things which adventurous people had seen very rarely in the

twilight of the remotest valleys and the dense perpendicular woods above the limits of normal

hill-climbing.

It would have been less uncomfortable if the stray accounts of these things had not agreed so

well. As it was, nearly all the rumours had several points in common; averring that the

creatures were a sort of huge, light-red crab with many pairs of legs and with two great bat-

like wings in the middle of the back. They sometimes walked on all their legs, and sometimes

on the hindmost pair only, using the others to convey large objects of indeterminate nature.

On one occasion they were spied in considerable numbers, a detachment of them wading

along a shallow woodland watercourse three abreast in evidently disciplined formation. Once

a specimen was seen flying—launching itself from the top of a bald, lonely hill at night and

vanishing in the sky after its great flapping wings had been silhouetted an instant against the

full moon.

These things seemed content, on the whole, to let mankind alone; though they were at times

held responsible for the disappearance of venturesome individuals—especially persons who

built houses too close to certain valleys or too high up on certain mountains. Many localities

came to be known as inadvisable to settle in, the feeling persisting long after the cause was

forgotten. People would look up at some of the neighbouring mountain-precipices with a

shudder, even when not recalling how many settlers had been lost, and how many

farmhouses burnt to ashes, on the lower slopes of those grim, green sentinels.

But while according to the earliest legends the creatures would appear to have harmed only

those trespassing on their privacy; there were later accounts of their curiosity respecting men,

and of their attempts to establish secret outposts in the human world. There were tales of the

queer claw-prints seen around farmhouse windows in the morning, and of occasional

disappearances in regions outside the obviously haunted areas. Tales, besides, of buzzing

voices in imitation of human speech which made surprising offers to lone travellers on roads

and cart-paths in the deep woods, and of children frightened out of their wits by things seen or

heard where the primal forest pressed close upon their dooryards. In the final layer of

legends—the layer just preceding the decline of superstition and the abandonment of close

contact with the dreaded places—there are shocked references to hermits and remote

farmers who at some period of life appeared to have undergone a repellent mental change,

and who were shunned and whispered about as mortals who had sold themselves to the

strange beings. In one of the northeastern counties it seemed to be a fashion about 1800 to

accuse eccentric and unpopular recluses of being allies or representatives of the abhorred

things.

As to what the things were—explanations naturally varied. The common name applied to

them was ―those ones‖, or ―the old ones‖, though other terms had a local and transient use.

Perhaps the bulk of the Puritan settlers set them down bluntly as familiars of the devil, and

made them a basis of awed theological speculation. Those with Celtic legendry in their

heritage—mainly the Scotch-Irish element of New Hampshire, and their kindred who had

settled in Vermont on Governor Wentworth‘s colonial grants—linked them vaguely with the

malign fairies and ―little people‖ of the bogs and raths, and protected themselves with scraps

of incantation handed down through many generations. But the Indians had the most fantastic

theories of all. While different tribal legends differed, there was a marked consensus of belief

in certain vital particulars; it being unanimously agreed that the creatures were not native to

this earth.

The Pennacook myths, which were the most consistent and picturesque, taught that the

Winged Ones came from the Great Bear in the sky, and had mines in our earthly hills whence

they took a kind of stone they could not get on any other world. They did not live here, said

the myths, but merely maintained outposts and flew back with vast cargoes of stone to their

own stars in the north. They harmed only those earth-people who got too near them or spied

upon them. Animals shunned them through instinctive hatred, not because of being hunted.

They could not eat the things and animals of earth, but brought their own food from the stars.

It was bad to get near them, and sometimes young hunters who went into their hills never

came back. It was not good, either, to listen to what they whispered at night in the forest with

voices like a bee‘s that tried to be like the voices of men. They knew the speech of all kinds of

men—Pennacooks, Hurons, men of the Five Nations—but did not seem to have or need any

speech of their own. They talked with their heads, which changed colour in different ways to

mean different things.

All the legendry, of course, white and Indian alike, died down during the nineteenth century,

except for occasional atavistical flareups. The ways of the Vermonters became settled; and

once their habitual paths and dwellings were established according to a certain fixed plan,

they remembered less and less what fears and avoidances had determined that plan, and

even that there had been any fears or avoidances. Most people simply knew that certain hilly

regions were considered as highly unhealthy, unprofitable, and generally unlucky to live in,

and that the farther one kept from them the better off one usually was. In time the ruts of

custom and economic interest became so deeply cut in approved places that there was no

longer any reason for going outside them, and the haunted hills were left deserted by accident

rather than by design. Save during infrequent local scares, only wonder-loving grandmothers

and retrospective nonagenarians ever whispered of beings dwelling in those hills; and even

such whisperers admitted that there was not much to fear from those things now that they

were used to the presence of houses and settlements, and now that human beings let their

chosen territory severely alone.

All this I had known from my reading, and from certain folk-tales picked up in New Hampshire;

hence when the flood-time rumours began to appear, I could easily guess what imaginative

background had evolved them. I took great pains to explain this to my friends, and was

correspondingly amused when several contentious souls continued to insist on a possible

element of truth in the reports. Such persons tried to point out that the early legends had a

significant persistence and uniformity, and that the virtually unexplored nature of the Vermont

hills made it unwise to be dogmatic about what might or might not dwell among them; nor

could they be silenced by my assurance that all the myths were of a well-known pattern

common to most of mankind and determined by early phases of imaginative experience which

always produced the same type of delusion.

It was of no use to demonstrate to such opponents that the Vermont myths differed but little in

essence from those universal legends of natural personification which filled the ancient world

with fauns and dryads and satyrs, suggested the kallikanzari of modern Greece, and gave to

wild Wales and Ireland their dark hints of strange, small, and terrible hidden races of

troglodytes and burrowers. No use, either, to point out the even more startlingly similar belief

of the Nepalese hill tribes in the dreaded Mi-Go or ―Abominable Snow-Men‖ who lurk

hideously amidst the ice and rock pinnacles of the Himalayan summits. When I brought up

this evidence, my opponents turned it against me by claiming that it must imply some actual

historicity for the ancient tales; that it must argue the real existence of some queer elder

earth-race, driven to hiding after the advent and dominance of mankind, which might very

conceivably have survived in reduced numbers to relatively recent times—or even to the

present.

The more I laughed at such theories, the more these stubborn friends asseverated them;

adding that even without the heritage of legend the recent reports were too clear, consistent,

detailed, and sanely prosaic in manner of telling, to be completely ignored. Two or three

fanatical extremists went so far as to hint at possible meanings in the ancient Indian tales

which gave the hidden beings a non-terrestrial origin; citing the extravagant books of Charles

Fort with their claims that voyagers from other worlds and outer space have often visited

earth. Most of my foes, however, were merely romanticists who insisted on trying to transfer

to real life the fantastic lore of lurking ―little people‖ made popular by the magnificent horror-

fiction of Arthur Machen.

II.

As was only natural under the circumstances, this piquant debating finally got into print in the

form of letters to the Arkham Advertiser; some of which were copied in the press of those

Vermont regions whence the flood-stories came. The Rutland Herald gave half a page of

extracts from the letters on both sides, while the Brattleboro Reformer reprinted one of my

long historical and mythological summaries in full, with some accompanying comments in

―The Pendrifter‘s‖ thoughtful column which supported and applauded my sceptical

conclusions. By the spring of 1928 I was almost a well-known figure in Vermont,

notwithstanding the fact that I had never set foot in the state. Then came the challenging

letters from Henry Akeley which impressed me so profoundly, and which took me for the first

and last time to that fascinating realm of crowded green precipices and muttering forest

streams.

Most of what I now know of Henry Wentworth Akeley was gathered by correspondence with

his neighbours, and with his only son in California, after my experience in his lonely

farmhouse. He was, I discovered, the last representative on his home soil of a long, locally

distinguished line of jurists, administrators, and gentlemen-agriculturists. In him, however, the

family mentally had veered away from practical affairs to pure scholarship; so that he had

been a notable student of mathematics, astronomy, biology, anthropology, and folklore at the

University of Vermont. I had never previously heard of him, and he did not give many

autobiographical details in his communications; but from the first I saw he was a man of

character, education, and intelligence, albeit a recluse with very little worldly sophistication.

Despite the incredible nature of what he claimed, I could not help at once taking Akeley more

seriously than I had taken any of the other challengers of my views. For one thing, he was

really close to the actual phenomena—visible and tangible—that he speculated so

grotesquely about; and for another thing, he was amazingly willing to leave his conclusions in

a tentative state like a true man of science. He had no personal preferences to advance, and

was always guided by what he took to be solid evidence. Of course I began by considering

him mistaken, but gave him credit for being intelligently mistaken; and at no time did I emulate

some of his friends in attributing his ideas, and his fear of the lonely green hills, to insanity. I

could see that there was a great deal to the man, and knew that what he reported must surely

come from strange circumstances deserving investigation, however little it might have to do

with the fantastic causes he assigned. Later on I received from him certain material proofs

which placed the matter on a somewhat different and bewilderingly bizarre basis.

I cannot do better than transcribe in full, so far as is possible, the long letter in which Akeley

introduced himself, and which formed such an important landmark in my own intellectual

history. It is no longer in my possession, but my memory holds almost every word of its

portentous message; and again I affirm my confidence in the sanity of the man who wrote it.

Here is the text—a text which reached me in the cramped, archaic-looking scrawl of one who

had obviously not mingled much with the world during his sedate, scholarly life.

R.F.D. #2,

Townshend, Windham Co.,

Vermont.

May 5, 1928.

Albert N. Wilmarth, Esq.,

118 Saltonstall St.,

Arkham, Mass.,

My dear Sir:—

I have read with great interest the Brattleboro Reformer‘s reprint (Apr. 23, ‘28) of

your letter on the recent stories of strange bodies seen floating in our flooded

streams last fall, and on the curious folklore they so well agree with. It is easy to

see why an outlander would take the position you take, and even why ―Pendrifter‖

agrees with you. That is the attitude generally taken by educated persons both in

and out of Vermont, and was my own attitude as a young man (I am now 57)

before my studies, both general and in Davenport‘s book, led me to do some

exploring in parts of the hills hereabouts not usually visited.

I was directed toward such studies by the queer old tales I used to hear from

elderly farmers of the more ignorant sort, but now I wish I had let the whole matter

alone. I might say, with all proper modesty, that the subject of anthropology and

folklore is by no means strange to me. I took a good deal of it at college, and am

familiar with most of the standard authorities such as Tylor, Lubbock, Frazer,

Quatrefages, Murray, Osborn, Keith, Boule, G. Elliot Smith, and so on. It is no news

to me that tales of hidden races are as old as all mankind. I have seen the reprints

of letters from you, and those arguing with you, in the Rutland Herald, and guess I

know about where your controversy stands at the present time.

What I desire to say now is, that I am afraid your adversaries are nearer right than

yourself, even though all reason seems to be on your side. They are nearer right

than they realise themselves—for of course they go only by theory, and cannot

know what I know. If I knew as little of the matter as they, I would not feel justified

in believing as they do. I would be wholly on your side.

You can see that I am having a hard time getting to the point, probably because I

really dread getting to the point; but the upshot of the matter is that I have certain

evidence that monstrous things do indeed live in the woods on the high hills which

nobody visits. I have not seen any of the things floating in the rivers, as reported,

but I have seen things like them under circumstances I dread to repeat. I have

seen footprints, and of late have seen them nearer my own home (I live in the old

Akeley place south of Townshend Village, on the side of Dark Mountain) than I dare

tell you now. And I have overheard voices in the woods at certain points that I will

not even begin to describe on paper.

At one place I heard them so much that I took a phonograph there—with a

dictaphone attachment and wax blank—and I shall try to arrange to have you hear

the record I got. I have run it on the machine for some of the old people up here,

and one of the voices had nearly scared them paralysed by reason of its likeness

to a certain voice (that buzzing voice in the woods which Davenport mentions) that

their grandmothers have told about and mimicked for them. I know what most

people think of a man who tells about ―hearing voices‖—but before you draw

conclusions just listen to this record and ask some of the older backwoods people

what they think of it. If you can account for it normally, very well; but there must be

something behind it. Ex nihilo nihil fit, you know.

Now my object in writing you is not to start an argument, but to give you

information which I think a man of your tastes will find deeply interesting. This is

private. Publicly I am on your side, for certain things shew me that it does not do

for people to know too much about these matters. My own studies are now wholly

private, and I would not think of saying anything to attract people‘s attention and

cause them to visit the places I have explored. It is true—terribly true—that there

are non-human creatures watching us all the time; with spies among us gathering

information. It is from a wretched man who, if he was sane (as I think he was), was

one of those spies, that I got a large part of my clues to the matter. He later killed

himself, but I have reason to think there are others now.

The things come from another planet, being able to live in interstellar space and fly

through it on clumsy, powerful wings which have a way of resisting the ether but

which are too poor at steering to be of much use in helping them about on earth. I

will tell you about this later if you do not dismiss me at once as a madman. They

come here to get metals from mines that go deep under the hills, and I think I know

where they come from. They will not hurt us if we let them alone, but no one can

say what will happen if we get too curious about them. Of course a good army of

men could wipe out their mining colony. That is what they are afraid of. But if that

happened, more would come from outside—any number of them. They could easily

conquer the earth, but have not tried so far because they have not needed to. They

would rather leave things as they are to save bother.

I think they mean to get rid of me because of what I have discovered. There is a

great black stone with unknown hieroglyphics half worn away which I found in the

woods on Round Hill, east of here; and after I took it home everything became

different. If they think I suspect too much they will either kill me or take me off the

earth to where they come from. They like to take away men of learning once in a

while, to keep informed on the state of things in the human world.

This leads me to my secondary purpose in addressing you—namely, to urge you to

hush up the present debate rather than give it more publicity. People must be kept

away from these hills, and in order to effect this, their curiosity ought not to be

aroused any further. Heaven knows there is peril enough anyway, with promoters

and real estate men flooding Vermont with herds of summer people to overrun the

wild places and cover the hills with cheap bungalows.

I shall welcome further communication with you, and shall try to send you that

phonograph record and black stone (which is so worn that photographs don‘t shew

much) by express if you are willing. I say ―try‖ because I think those creatures have

a way of tampering with things around here. There is a sullen, furtive fellow named

Brown, on a farm near the village, who I think is their spy. Little by little they are

trying to cut me off from our world because I know too much about their world.

They have the most amazing way of finding out what I do. You may not even get

this letter. I think I shall have to leave this part of the country and go to live with my

son in San Diego, Cal., if things get any worse, but it is not easy to give up the

place you were born in, and where your family has lived for six generations. Also, I

would hardly dare sell this house to anybody now that the creatures have taken

notice of it. They seem to be trying to get the black stone back and destroy the

phonograph record, but I shall not let them if I can help it. My great police dogs

always hold them back, for there are very few here as yet, and they are clumsy in

getting about. As I have said, their wings are not much use for short flights on

earth. I am on the very brink of deciphering that stone—in a very terrible way—and

with your knowledge of folklore you may be able to supply missing links enough to

help me. I suppose you know all about the fearful myths antedating the coming of

man to the earth—the Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu cycles—which are hinted at in the

Necronomicon. I had access to a copy of that once, and hear that you have one in

your college library under lock and key.

To conclude, Mr. Wilmarth, I think that with our respective studies we can be very

useful to each other. I don‘t wish to put you in any peril, and suppose I ought to

warn you that possession of the stone and the record won‘t be very safe; but I think

you will find any risks worth running for the sake of knowledge. I will drive down to

Newfane or Brattleboro to send whatever you authorise me to send, for the

express offices there are more to be trusted. I might say that I live quite alone now,

since I can‘t keep hired help any more. They won‘t stay because of the things that

try to get near the house at night, and that keep the dogs barking continually. I am

glad I didn‘t get as deep as this into the business while my wife was alive, for it

would have driven her mad.

Hoping that I am not bothering you unduly, and that you will decide to get in touch

with me rather than throw this letter into the waste basket as a madman‘s raving, I

Yrs. very truly,

HENRY W. AKELEY

P.S. I am making some extra prints of certain photographs taken by me, which I

think will help to prove a number of the points I have touched on. The old people

think they are monstrously true. I shall send you these very soon if you are

interested. H.W.A.

It would be difficult to describe my sentiments upon reading this strange document for the first

time. By all ordinary rules, I ought to have laughed more loudly at these extravagances than

at the far milder theories which had previously moved me to mirth; yet something in the tone

of the letter made me take it with paradoxical seriousness. Not that I believed for a moment in

the hidden race from the stars which my correspondent spoke of; but that, after some grave

preliminary doubts, I grew to feel oddly sure of his sanity and sincerity, and of his

confrontation by some genuine though singular and abnormal phenomenon which he could

not explain except in this imaginative way. It could not be as he thought it, I reflected, yet on

the other hand it could not be otherwise than worthy of investigation. The man seemed unduly

excited and alarmed about something, but it was hard to think that all cause was lacking. He

was so specific and logical in certain ways—and after all, his yarn did fit in so perplexingly

well with some of the old myths—even the wildest Indian legends.

That he had really overheard disturbing voices in the hills, and had really found the black

stone he spoke about, was wholly possible despite the crazy inferences he had made—

inferences probably suggested by the man who had claimed to be a spy of the outer beings

and had later killed himself. It was easy to deduce that this man must have been wholly

insane, but that he probably had a streak of perverse outward logic which made the naive

Akeley—already prepared for such things by his folklore studies—believe his tale. As for the

latest developments—it appeared from his inability to keep hired help that Akeley‘s humbler

rustic neighbours were as convinced as he that his house was besieged by uncanny things at

night. The dogs really barked, too.

And then the matter of that phonograph record, which I could not but believe he had obtained

in the way he said. It must mean something; whether animal noises deceptively like human

speech, or the speech of some hidden, night-haunting human being decayed to a state not

much above that of lower animals. From this my thoughts went back to the black hieroglyphed

stone, and to speculations upon what it might mean. Then, too, what of the photographs

which Akeley said he was about to send, and which the old people had found so convincingly

terrible?

As I re-read the cramped handwriting I felt as never before that my credulous opponents

might have more on their side than I had conceded. After all, there might be some queer and

perhaps hereditarily misshapen outcasts in those shunned hills, even though no such race of

star-born monsters as folklore claimed. And if there were, then the presence of strange bodies

in the flooded streams would not be wholly beyond belief. Was it too presumptuous to

suppose that both the old legends and the recent reports had this much of reality behind

them? But even as I harboured these doubts I felt ashamed that so fantastic a piece of

bizarrerie as Henry Akeley‘s wild letter had brought them up.

In the end I answered Akeley‘s letter, adopting a tone of friendly interest and soliciting further

particulars. His reply came almost by return mail; and contained, true to promise, a number of

kodak views of scenes and objects illustrating what he had to tell. Glancing at these pictures

as I took them from the envelope, I felt a curious sense of fright and nearness to forbidden

things; for in spite of the vagueness of most of them, they had a damnably suggestive power

which was intensified by the fact of their being genuine photographs—actual optical links with

what they portrayed, and the product of an impersonal transmitting process without prejudice,

fallibility, or mendacity.

The more I looked at them, the more I saw that my serious estimate of Akeley and his story

had not been unjustified. Certainly, these pictures carried conclusive evidence of something in

the Vermont hills which was at least vastly outside the radius of our common knowledge and

belief. The worst thing of all was the footprint—a view taken where the sun shone on a mud

patch somewhere in a deserted upland. This was no cheaply counterfeited thing, I could see

at a glance; for the sharply defined pebbles and grass-blades in the field of vision gave a

clear index of scale and left no possibility of a tricky double exposure. I have called the thing a

―footprint‖, but ―claw-print‖ would be a better term. Even now I can scarcely describe it save to

say that it was hideously crab-like, and that there seemed to be some ambiguity about its

direction. It was not a very deep or fresh print, but seemed to be about the size of an average

man‘s foot. From a central pad, pairs of saw-toothed nippers projected in opposite

directions—quite baffling as to function, if indeed the whole object were exclusively an organ

of locomotion.

Another photograph—evidently a time-exposure taken in deep shadow—was of the mouth of

a woodland cave, with a boulder of rounded regularity choking the aperture. On the bare

ground in front of it one could just discern a dense network of curious tracks, and when I

studied the picture with a magnifier I felt uneasily sure that the tracks were like the one in the

other view. A third picture shewed a druid-like circle of standing stones on the summit of a wild

hill. Around the cryptic circle the grass was very much beaten down and worn away, though I

could not detect any footprints even with the glass. The extreme remoteness of the place was

apparent from the veritable sea of tenantless mountains which formed the background and

stretched away toward a misty horizon.

But if the most disturbing of all the views was that of the footprint, the most curiously

suggestive was that of the great black stone found in the Round Hill woods. Akeley had

photographed it on what was evidently his study table, for I could see rows of books and a

bust of Milton in the background. The thing, as nearly as one might guess, had faced the

camera vertically with a somewhat irregularly curved surface of one by two feet; but to say

anything definite about that surface, or about the general shape of the whole mass, almost

defies the power of language. What outlandish geometrical principles had guided its cutting—

for artificially cut it surely was—I could not even begin to guess; and never before had I seen

anything which struck me as so strangely and unmistakably alien to this world. Of the

hieroglyphics on the surface I could discern very few, but one or two that I did see gave me

rather a shock. Of course they might be fraudulent, for others besides myself had read the

monstrous and abhorred Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; but it nevertheless

made me shiver to recognise certain ideographs which study had taught me to link with the

most blood-curdling and blasphemous whispers of things that had had a kind of mad half-

existence before the earth and the other inner worlds of the solar system were made.

Of the five remaining pictures, three were of swamp and hill scenes which seemed to bear

traces of hidden and unwholesome tenancy. Another was of a queer mark in the ground very

near Akeley‘s house, which he said he had photographed the morning after a night on which

the dogs had barked more violently than usual. It was very blurred, and one could really draw

no certain conclusions from it; but it did seem fiendishly like that other mark or claw-print

photographed on the deserted upland. The final picture was of the Akeley place itself; a trim

white house of two stories and attic, about a century and a quarter old, and with a well-kept

lawn and stone-bordered path leading up to a tastefully carved Georgian doorway. There

were several huge police dogs on the lawn, squatting near a pleasant-faced man with a close-

cropped grey beard whom I took to be Akeley himself—his own photographer, one might infer

from the tube-connected bulb in his right hand.

From the pictures I turned to the bulky, closely written letter itself; and for the next three hours

was immersed in a gulf of unutterable horror. Where Akeley had given only outlines before, he

now entered into minute details; presenting long transcripts of words overheard in the woods

at night, long accounts of monstrous pinkish forms spied in thickets at twilight on the hills, and

a terrible cosmic narrative derived from the application of profound and varied scholarship to

the endless bygone discourses of the mad self-styled spy who had killed himself. I found

myself faced by names and terms that I had heard elsewhere in the most hideous of

connexions—Yuggoth, Great Cthulhu, Tsathoggua, Yog-Sothoth, R‘lyeh, Nyarlathotep,

Azathoth, Hastur, Yian, Leng, the Lake of Hali, Bethmoora, the Yellow Sign, L‘mur-Kathulos,

Bran, and the Magnum Innominandum—and was drawn back through nameless aeons and

inconceivable dimensions to worlds of elder, outer entity at which the crazed author of the

Necronomicon had only guessed in the vaguest way. I was told of the pits of primal life, and of

the streams that had trickled down therefrom; and finally, of the tiny rivulet from one of those

streams which had become entangled with the destinies of our own earth.

My brain whirled; and where before I had attempted to explain things away, I now began to

believe in the most abnormal and incredible wonders. The array of vital evidence was

damnably vast and overwhelming; and the cool, scientific attitude of Akeley—an attitude

removed as far as imaginable from the demented, the fanatical, the hysterical, or even the

extravagantly speculative—had a tremendous effect on my thought and judgment. By the time

I laid the frightful letter aside I could understand the fears he had come to entertain, and was

ready to do anything in my power to keep people away from those wild, haunted hills. Even

now, when time has dulled the impression and made me half question my own experience

and horrible doubts, there are things in that letter of Akeley‘s which I would not quote, or even

form into words on paper. I am almost glad that the letter and record and photographs are

gone now—and I wish, for reasons I shall soon make clear, that the new planet beyond

Neptune had not been discovered.

With the reading of that letter my public debating about the Vermont horror permanently

ended. Arguments from opponents remained unanswered or put off with promises, and

eventually the controversy petered out into oblivion. During late May and June I was in

constant correspondence with Akeley; though once in a while a letter would be lost, so that

we would have to retrace our ground and perform considerable laborious copying. What we

were trying to do, as a whole, was to compare notes in matters of obscure mythological

scholarship and arrive at a clearer correlation of the Vermont horrors with the general body of

primitive world legend.

For one thing, we virtually decided that these morbidities and the hellish Himalayan Mi-Go

were one and the same order of incarnated nightmare. There were also absorbing zoölogical

conjectures, which I would have referred to Professor Dexter in my own college but for

Akeley‘s imperative command to tell no one of the matter before us. If I seem to disobey that

command now, it is only because I think that at this stage a warning about those farther

Vermont hills—and about those Himalayan peaks which bold explorers are more and more

determined to ascend—is more conducive to public safety than silence would be. One

specific thing we were leading up to was a deciphering of the hieroglyphics on that infamous

black stone—a deciphering which might well place us in possession of secrets deeper and

more dizzying than any formerly known to man.

III.

Toward the end of June the phonograph record came—shipped from Brattleboro, since

Akeley was unwilling to trust conditions on the branch line north of there. He had begun to

feel an increased sense of espionage, aggravated by the loss of some of our letters; and said

much about the insidious deeds of certain men whom he considered tools and agents of the

hidden beings. Most of all he suspected the surly farmer Walter Brown, who lived alone on a

run-down hillside place near the deep woods, and who was often seen loafing around corners

in Brattleboro, Bellows Falls, Newfane, and South Londonderry in the most inexplicable and

seemingly unmotivated way. Brown‘s voice, he felt convinced, was one of those he had

overheard on a certain occasion in a very terrible conversation; and he had once found a

footprint or claw-print near Brown‘s house which might possess the most ominous

significance. It had been curiously near some of Brown‘s own footprints—footprints that faced

toward it.

So the record was shipped from Brattleboro, whither Akeley drove in his Ford car along the

lonely Vermont back roads. He confessed in an accompanying note that he was beginning to

be afraid of those roads, and that he would not even go into Townshend for supplies now

except in broad daylight. It did not pay, he repeated again and again, to know too much

unless one were very remote from those silent and problematical hills. He would be going to

California pretty soon to live with his son, though it was hard to leave a place where all one‘s

memories and ancestral feelings centred.

Before trying the record on the commercial machine which I borrowed from the college

administration building I carefully went over all the explanatory matter in Akeley‘s various

letters. This record, he had said, was obtained about 1 a.m. on the first of May, 1915, near the

closed mouth of a cave where the wooded west slope of Dark Mountain rises out of Lee‘s

Swamp. The place had always been unusually plagued with strange voices, this being the

reason he had brought the phonograph, dictaphone, and blank in expectation of results.

Former experience had told him that May-Eve—the hideous Sabbat-night of underground

European legend—would probably be more fruitful than any other date, and he was not

disappointed. It was noteworthy, though, that he never again heard voices at that particular

spot.

Unlike most of the overheard forest voices, the substance of the record was quasi-ritualistic,

and included one palpably human voice which Akeley had never been able to place. It was

not Brown‘s, but seemed to be that of a man of greater cultivation. The second voice,

however, was the real crux of the thing—for this was the accursed buzzing which had no

likeness to humanity despite the human words which it uttered in good English grammar and

a scholarly accent.

The recording phonograph and dictaphone had not worked uniformly well, and had of course

been at a great disadvantage because of the remote and muffled nature of the overheard

ritual; so that the actual speech secured was very fragmentary. Akeley had given me a

transcript of what he believed the spoken words to be, and I glanced through this again as I

prepared the machine for action. The text was darkly mysterious rather than openly horrible,

though a knowledge of its origin and manner of gathering gave it all the associative horror

which any words could well possess. I will present it here in full as I remember it—and I am

fairly confident that I know it correctly by heart, not only from reading the transcript, but from

playing the record itself over and over again. It is not a thing which one might readily forget!

(INDISTINGUISHABLE SOUNDS)

(A CULTIVATED MALE HUMAN VOICE)

. . . is the Lord of the Woods, even to . . . and the gifts of the men of Leng . . . so

from the wells of night to the gulfs of space, and from the gulfs of space to the wells

of night, ever the praises of Great Cthulhu, of Tsathoggua, and of Him Who is not

to be Named. Ever Their praises, and abundance to the Black Goat of the Woods.

Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat with a Thousand Young!

(A BUZZING IMITATION OF HUMAN SPEECH)

Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!

(HUMAN VOICE)

And it has come to pass that the Lord of the Woods, being . . . seven and nine,

down the onyx steps . . . (tri)butes to Him in the Gulf, Azathoth, He of Whom Thou

hast taught us marv(els) . . . on the wings of night out beyond space, out beyond th

. . . to That whereof Yuggoth is the youngest child, rolling alone in black aether at

the rim. . . .

(BUZZING VOICE)

. . . go out among men and find the ways thereof, that He in the Gulf may know. To

Nyarlathotep, Mighty Messenger, must all things be told. And He shall put on the

semblance of men, the waxen mask and the robe that hides, and come down from

the world of Seven Suns to mock. . . .

(HUMAN VOICE)

. . . (Nyarl)athotep, Great Messenger, bringer of strange joy to Yuggoth through the

void, Father of the Million Favoured Ones, Stalker among. . . .

(SPEECH CUT OFF BY END OF RECORD)

Such were the words for which I was to listen when I started the phonograph. It was with a

trace of genuine dread and reluctance that I pressed the lever and heard the preliminary

scratching of the sapphire point, and I was glad that the first faint, fragmentary words were in

a human voice—a mellow, educated voice which seemed vaguely Bostonian in accent, and

which was certainly not that of any native of the Vermont hills. As I listened to the tantalisingly

feeble rendering, I seemed to find the speech identical with Akeley‘s carefully prepared

transcript. On it chanted, in that mellow Bostonian voice . . . ―Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat

with a Thousand Young! . . .‖

And then I heard the other voice. To this hour I shudder retrospectively when I think of how it

struck me, prepared though I was by Akeley‘s accounts. Those to whom I have since

described the record profess to find nothing but cheap imposture or madness in it; but could

they have heard the accursed thing itself, or read the bulk of Akeley‘s correspondence

(especially that terrible and encyclopaedic second letter), I know they would think differently. It

is, after all, a tremendous pity that I did not disobey Akeley and play the record for others—a

tremendous pity, too, that all of his letters were lost. To me, with my first-hand impression of

the actual sounds, and with my knowledge of the background and surrounding circumstances,

the voice was a monstrous thing. It swiftly followed the human voice in ritualistic response, but

in my imagination it was a morbid echo winging its way across unimaginable abysses from

unimaginable outer hells. It is more than two years now since I last ran off that blasphemous

waxen cylinder; but at this moment, and at all other moments, I can still hear that feeble,

fiendish buzzing as it reached me for the first time.

―Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young!”

But though that voice is always in my ears, I have not even yet been able to analyse it well

enough for a graphic description. It was like the drone of some loathsome, gigantic insect

ponderously shaped into the articulate speech of an alien species, and I am perfectly certain

that the organs producing it can have no resemblance to the vocal organs of man, or indeed

to those of any of the mammalia. There were singularities in timbre, range, and overtones

which placed this phenomenon wholly outside the sphere of humanity and earth-life. Its

sudden advent that first time almost stunned me, and I heard the rest of the record through in

a sort of abstracted daze. When the longer passage of buzzing came, there was a sharp

intensification of that feeling of blasphemous infinity which had struck me during the shorter

and earlier passage. At last the record ended abruptly, during an unusually clear speech of

the human and Bostonian voice; but I sat stupidly staring long after the machine had

automatically stopped.

I hardly need say that I gave that shocking record many another playing, and that I made

exhaustive attempts at analysis and comment in comparing notes with Akeley. It would be

both useless and disturbing to repeat here all that we concluded; but I may hint that we

agreed in believing we had secured a clue to the source of some of the most repulsive

primordial customs in the cryptic elder religions of mankind. It seemed plain to us, also, that

there were ancient and elaborate alliances between the hidden outer creatures and certain

members of the human race. How extensive these alliances were, and how their state today

might compare with their state in earlier ages, we had no means of guessing; yet at best there

was room for a limitless amount of horrified speculation. There seemed to be an awful,

immemorial linkage in several definite stages betwixt man and nameless infinity. The

blasphemies which appeared on earth, it was hinted, came from the dark planet Yuggoth, at

the rim of the solar system; but this was itself merely the populous outpost of a frightful

interstellar race whose ultimate source must lie far outside even the Einsteinian space-time

continuum or greatest known cosmos.

Meanwhile we continued to discuss the black stone and the best way of getting it to Arkham—

Akeley deeming it inadvisable to have me visit him at the scene of his nightmare studies. For

some reason or other, Akeley was afraid to trust the thing to any ordinary or expected

transportation route. His final idea was to take it across county to Bellows Falls and ship it on

the Boston and Maine system through Keene and Winchendon and Fitchburg, even though

this would necessitate his driving along somewhat lonelier and more forest-traversing hill

roads than the main highway to Brattleboro. He said he had noticed a man around the

express office at Brattleboro when he had sent the phonograph record, whose actions and

expression had been far from reassuring. This man had seemed too anxious to talk with the

clerks, and had taken the train on which the record was shipped. Akeley confessed that he

had not felt strictly at ease about that record until he heard from me of its safe receipt.

About this time—the second week in July—another letter of mine went astray, as I learned

through an anxious communication from Akeley. After that he told me to address him no more

at Townshend, but to send all mail in care of the General Delivery at Brattleboro; whither he

would make frequent trips either in his car or on the motor-coach line which had lately

replaced passenger service on the lagging branch railway. I could see that he was getting

more and more anxious, for he went into much detail about the increased barking of the dogs

on moonless nights, and about the fresh claw-prints he sometimes found in the road and in

the mud at the back of his farmyard when morning came. Once he told about a veritable army

of prints drawn up in a line facing an equally thick and resolute line of dog-tracks, and sent a

loathsomely disturbing kodak picture to prove it. That was after a night on which the dogs had

outdone themselves in barking and howling.

On the morning of Wednesday, July 18, I received a telegram from Bellows Falls, in which

Akeley said he was expressing the black stone over the B. & M. on Train No. 5508, leaving

Bellows Falls at 12:15 p.m., standard time, and due at the North Station in Boston at 4:12

p.m. It ought, I calculated, to get up to Arkham at least by the next noon; and accordingly I

stayed in all Thursday morning to receive it. But noon came and went without its advent, and

when I telephoned down to the express office I was informed that no shipment for me had

arrived. My next act, performed amidst a growing alarm, was to give a long-distance call to

the express agent at the Boston North Station; and I was scarcely surprised to learn that my

consignment had not appeared. Train No. 5508 had pulled in only 35 minutes late on the day

before, but had contained no box addressed to me. The agent promised, however, to institute

a searching inquiry; and I ended the day by sending Akeley a night-letter outlining the

situation.

With commendable promptness a report came from the Boston office on the following

afternoon, the agent telephoning as soon as he learned the facts. It seemed that the railway

express clerk on No. 5508 had been able to recall an incident which might have much bearing

on my loss—an argument with a very curious-voiced man, lean, sandy, and rustic-looking,

when the train was waiting at Keene, N.H., shortly after one o‘clock standard time.

The man, he said, was greatly excited about a heavy box which he claimed to expect, but

which was neither on the train nor entered on the company‘s books. He had given the name

of Stanley Adams, and had had such a queerly thick droning voice, that it made the clerk

abnormally dizzy and sleepy to listen to him. The clerk could not remember quite how the

conversation had ended, but recalled starting into a fuller awakeness when the train began to

move. The Boston agent added that this clerk was a young man of wholly unquestioned

veracity and reliability, of known antecedents and long with the company.

That evening I went to Boston to interview the clerk in person, having obtained his name and

address from the office. He was a frank, prepossessing fellow, but I saw that he could add

nothing to his original account. Oddly, he was scarcely sure that he could even recognise the

strange inquirer again. Realising that he had no more to tell, I returned to Arkham and sat up

till morning writing letters to Akeley, to the express company, and to the police department and

station agent in Keene. I felt that the strange-voiced man who had so queerly affected the

clerk must have a pivotal place in the ominous business, and hoped that Keene station

employees and telegraph-office records might tell something about him and about how he

happened to make his inquiry when and where he did.

I must admit, however, that all my investigations came to nothing. The queer-voiced man had

indeed been noticed around the Keene station in the early afternoon of July 18, and one

lounger seemed to couple him vaguely with a heavy box; but he was altogether unknown, and

had not been seen before or since. He had not visited the telegraph office or received any

message so far as could be learned, nor had any message which might justly be considered a

notice of the black stone‘s presence on No. 5508 come through the office for anyone.

Naturally Akeley joined with me in conducting these inquiries, and even made a personal trip

to Keene to question the people around the station; but his attitude toward the matter was

more fatalistic than mine. He seemed to find the loss of the box a portentous and menacing

fulfilment of inevitable tendencies, and had no real hope at all of its recovery. He spoke of the

undoubted telepathic and hypnotic powers of the hill creatures and their agents, and in one

letter hinted that he did not believe the stone was on this earth any longer. For my part, I was

duly enraged, for I had felt there was at least a chance of learning profound and astonishing

things from the old, blurred hieroglyphs. The matter would have rankled bitterly in my mind

had not Akeley‘s immediate subsequent letters brought up a new phase of the whole horrible

hill problem which at once seized all my attention.

IV.

The unknown things, Akeley wrote in a script grown pitifully tremulous, had begun to close in

on him with a wholly new degree of determination. The nocturnal barking of the dogs

whenever the moon was dim or absent was hideous now, and there had been attempts to

molest him on the lonely roads he had to traverse by day. On the second of August, while

bound for the village in his car, he had found a tree-trunk laid in his path at a point where the

highway ran through a deep patch of woods; while the savage barking of the two great dogs

he had with him told all too well of the things which must have been lurking near. What would

have happened had the dogs not been there, he did not dare guess—but he never went out

now without at least two of his faithful and powerful pack. Other road experiences had

occurred on August 5th and 6th; a shot grazing his car on one occasion, and the barking of

the dogs telling of unholy woodland presences on the other.

On August 15th I received a frantic letter which disturbed me greatly, and which made me

wish Akeley could put aside his lonely reticence and call in the aid of the law. There had been

frightful happenings on the night of the 12-13th, bullets flying outside the farmhouse, and

three of the twelve great dogs being found shot dead in the morning. There were myriads of

claw-prints in the road, with the human prints of Walter Brown among them. Akeley had

started to telephone to Brattleboro for more dogs, but the wire had gone dead before he had a

chance to say much. Later he went to Brattleboro in his car, and learned there that linemen

had found the main telephone cable neatly cut at a point where it ran through the deserted

hills north of Newfane. But he was about to start home with four fine new dogs, and several

cases of ammunition for his big-game repeating rifle. The letter was written at the post office

in Brattleboro, and came through to me without delay.

My attitude toward the matter was by this time quickly slipping from a scientific to an

alarmedly personal one. I was afraid for Akeley in his remote, lonely farmhouse, and half

afraid for myself because of my now definite connexion with the strange hill problem. The

thing was reaching out so. Would it suck me in and engulf me? In replying to his letter I urged

him to seek help, and hinted that I might take action myself if he did not. I spoke of visiting

Vermont in person in spite of his wishes, and of helping him explain the situation to the proper

authorities. In return, however, I received only a telegram from Bellows Falls which read thus:

APPRECIATE YOUR POSITION BUT CAN DO NOTHING. TAKE NO ACTION

YOURSELF FOR IT COULD ONLY HARM BOTH. WAIT FOR EXPLANATION.

HENRY AKELY

But the affair was steadily deepening. Upon my replying to the telegram I received a shaky

note from Akeley with the astonishing news that he had not only never sent the wire, but had

not received the letter from me to which it was an obvious reply. Hasty inquiries by him at

Bellows Falls had brought out that the message was deposited by a strange sandy-haired

man with a curiously thick, droning voice, though more than this he could not learn. The clerk

shewed him the original text as scrawled in pencil by the sender, but the handwriting was

wholly unfamiliar. It was noticeable that the signature was misspelled—A-K-E-L-Y, without the

second ―E‖. Certain conjectures were inevitable, but amidst the obvious crisis he did not stop

to elaborate upon them.

He spoke of the death of more dogs and the purchase of still others, and of the exchange of

gunfire which had become a settled feature each moonless night. Brown‘s prints, and the

prints of at least one or two more shod human figures, were now found regularly among the

claw-prints in the road, and at the back of the farmyard. It was, Akeley admitted, a pretty bad

business; and before long he would probably have to go to live with his California son whether

or not he could sell the old place. But it was not easy to leave the only spot one could really

think of as home. He must try to hang on a little longer; perhaps he could scare off the

intruders—especially if he openly gave up all further attempts to penetrate their secrets.

Writing Akeley at once, I renewed my offers of aid, and spoke again of visiting him and

helping him convince the authorities of his dire peril. In his reply he seemed less set against

that plan than his past attitude would have led one to predict, but said he would like to hold off

a little while longer—long enough to get his things in order and reconcile himself to the idea of

leaving an almost morbidly cherished birthplace. People looked askance at his studies and

speculations, and it would be better to get quietly off without setting the countryside in a

turmoil and creating widespread doubts of his own sanity. He had had enough, he admitted,

but he wanted to make a dignified exit if he could.

This letter reached me on the twenty-eighth of August, and I prepared and mailed as

encouraging a reply as I could. Apparently the encouragement had effect, for Akeley had

fewer terrors to report when he acknowledged my note. He was not very optimistic, though,

and expressed the belief that it was only the full moon season which was holding the

creatures off. He hoped there would not be many densely cloudy nights, and talked vaguely of

boarding in Brattleboro when the moon waned. Again I wrote him encouragingly, but on

September 5th there came a fresh communication which had obviously crossed my letter in

the mails; and to this I could not give any such hopeful response. In view of its importance I

believe I had better give it in full—as best I can do from memory of the shaky script. It ran

substantially as follows:

Monday.

Dear Wilmarth—

A rather discouraging P.S. to my last. Last night was thickly cloudy—though no

rain—and not a bit of moonlight got through. Things were pretty bad, and I think the

end is getting near, in spite of all we have hoped. After midnight something landed

on the roof of the house, and the dogs all rushed up to see what it was. I could

hear them snapping and tearing around, and then one managed to get on the roof

by jumping from the low ell. There was a terrible fight up there, and I heard a

frightful buzzing which I‘ll never forget. And then there was a shocking smell. About

the same time bullets came through the window and nearly grazed me. I think the

main line of the hill creatures had got close to the house when the dogs divided

because of the roof business. What was up there I don‘t know yet, but I‘m afraid

the creatures are learning to steer better with their space wings. I put out the light

and used the windows for loopholes, and raked all around the house with rifle fire

aimed just high enough not to hit the dogs. That seemed to end the business, but

in the morning I found great pools of blood in the yard, beside pools of a green

sticky stuff that had the worst odour I have ever smelled. I climbed up on the roof

and found more of the sticky stuff there. Five of the dogs were killed—I‘m afraid I

hit one by aiming too low, for he was shot in the back. Now I am setting the panes

the shots broke, and am going to Brattleboro for more dogs. I guess the men at the

kennels think I am crazy. Will drop another note later. Suppose I‘ll be ready for

moving in a week or two, though it nearly kills me to think of it.

Hastily—

AKELEY

But this was not the only letter from Akeley to cross mine. On the next morning—September

6th—still another came; this time a frantic scrawl which utterly unnerved me and put me at a

loss what to say or do next. Again I cannot do better than quote the text as faithfully as

memory will let me.

Tuesday.

Clouds didn‘t break, so no moon again—and going into the wane anyhow. I‘d have

the house wired for electricity and put in a searchlight if I didn‘t know they‘d cut the

cables as fast as they could be mended.

I think I am going crazy. It may be that all I have ever written you is a dream or

madness. It was bad enough before, but this time it is too much. They talked to me

last night—talked in that cursed buzzing voice and told me things that I dare not

repeat to you. I heard them plainly over the barking of the dogs, and once when

they were drowned out a human voice helped them. Keep out of this, Wilmarth—it

is worse than either you or I ever suspected. They don’t mean to let me get to

California now—they want to take me off alive, or what theoretically and mentally

amounts to alive—not only to Yuggoth, but beyond that—away outside the galaxy

and possibly beyond the last curved rim of space. I told them I wouldn‘t go where

they wish, or in the terrible way they propose to take me, but I‘m afraid it will be no

use. My place is so far out that they may come by day as well as by night before

long. Six more dogs killed, and I felt presences all along the wooded parts of the

road when I drove to Brattleboro today.

It was a mistake for me to try to send you that phonograph record and black stone.

Better smash the record before it‘s too late. Will drop you another line tomorrow if

I‘m still here. Wish I could arrange to get my books and things to Brattleboro and

board there. I would run off without anything if I could, but something inside my

mind holds me back. I can slip out to Brattleboro, where I ought to be safe, but I

feel just as much a prisoner there as at the house. And I seem to know that I

couldn‘t get much farther even if I dropped everything and tried. It is horrible—don‘t

get mixed up in this.

Yrs—AKELEY

I did not sleep at all the night after receiving this terrible thing, and was utterly baffled as to

Akeley‘s remaining degree of sanity. The substance of the note was wholly insane, yet the

manner of expression—in view of all that had gone before—had a grimly potent quality of

convincingness. I made no attempt to answer it, thinking it better to wait until Akeley might

have time to reply to my latest communication. Such a reply indeed came on the following

day, though the fresh material in it quite overshadowed any of the points brought up by the

letter it nominally answered. Here is what I recall of the text, scrawled and blotted as it was in

the course of a plainly frantic and hurried composition.

Wednesday.

W—

Yr letter came, but it‘s no use to discuss anything any more. I am fully resigned.

Wonder that I have even enough will power left to fight them off. Can‘t escape even

if I were willing to give up everything and run. They‘ll get me.

Had a letter from them yesterday—R.F.D. man brought it while I was at Brattleboro.

Typed and postmarked Bellows Falls. Tells what they want to do with me—I can‘t

repeat it. Look out for yourself, too! Smash that record. Cloudy nights keep up, and

moon waning all the time. Wish I dared to get help—it might brace up my will

power—but everyone who would dare to come at all would call me crazy unless

there happened to be some proof. Couldn‘t ask people to come for no reason at

all—am all out of touch with everybody and have been for years.

But I haven‘t told you the worst, Wilmarth. Brace up to read this, for it will give you

a shock. I am telling the truth, though. It is this—I have seen and touched one of

the things, or part of one of the things. God, man, but it‘s awful! It was dead, of

course. One of the dogs had it, and I found it near the kennel this morning. I tried to

save it in the woodshed to convince people of the whole thing, but it all evaporated

in a few hours. Nothing left. You know, all those things in the rivers were seen only

on the first morning after the flood. And here‘s the worst. I tried to photograph it for

you, but when I developed the film there wasn’t anything visible except the

woodshed. What can the thing have been made of? I saw it and felt it, and they all

leave footprints. It was surely made of matter—but what kind of matter? The shape

can‘t be described. It was a great crab with a lot of pyramided fleshy rings or knots

of thick, ropy stuff covered with feelers where a man‘s head would be. That green

sticky stuff is its blood or juice. And there are more of them due on earth any

minute.

Walter Brown is missing—hasn‘t been seen loafing around any of his usual corners

in the villages hereabouts. I must have got him with one of my shots, though the

creatures always seem to try to take their dead and wounded away.

Got into town this afternoon without any trouble, but am afraid they‘re beginning to

hold off because they‘re sure of me. Am writing this in Brattleboro P.O. This may be

goodbye—if it is, write my son George Goodenough Akeley, 176 Pleasant St., San

Diego, Cal., but don’t come up here. Write the boy if you don‘t hear from me in a

week, and watch the papers for news.

I‘m going to play my last two cards now—if I have the will power left. First to try

poison gas on the things (I‘ve got the right chemicals and have fixed up masks for

myself and the dogs) and then if that doesn‘t work, tell the sheriff. They can lock

me in a madhouse if they want to—it‘ll be better than what the other creatures

would do. Perhaps I can get them to pay attention to the prints around the house—

they are faint, but I can find them every morning. Suppose, though, police would

say I faked them somehow; for they all think I‘m a queer character.

Must try to have a state policeman spend a night here and see for himself—though

it would be just like the creatures to learn about it and hold off that night. They cut

my wires whenever I try to telephone in the night—the linemen think it is very

queer, and may testify for me if they don‘t go and imagine I cut them myself. I

haven‘t tried to keep them repaired for over a week now.

I could get some of the ignorant people to testify for me about the reality of the

horrors, but everybody laughs at what they say, and anyway, they have shunned

my place for so long that they don‘t know any of the new events. You couldn‘t get

one of those run-down farmers to come within a mile of my house for love or

money. The mail-carrier hears what they say and jokes me about it—God! If I only

dared tell him how real it is! I think I‘ll try to get him to notice the prints, but he

comes in the afternoon and they‘re usually about gone by that time. If I kept one by

setting a box or pan over it, he‘d think surely it was a fake or joke.

Wish I hadn‘t gotten to be such a hermit, so folks don‘t drop around as they used

to. I‘ve never dared shew the black stone or the kodak pictures, or play that record,

to anybody but the ignorant people. The others would say I faked the whole

business and do nothing but laugh. But I may yet try shewing the pictures. They

give those claw-prints clearly, even if the things that made them can‘t be

photographed. What a shame nobody else saw that thing this morning before it

went to nothing!

But I don‘t know as I care. After what I‘ve been through, a madhouse is as good a

place as any. The doctors can help me make up my mind to get away from this

house, and that is all that will save me.

Write my son George if you don‘t hear soon. Goodbye, smash that record, and

don‘t mix up in this.

Yrs—AKELEY

The letter frankly plunged me into the blackest of terror. I did not know what to say in answer,

but scratched off some incoherent words of advice and encouragement and sent them by

registered mail. I recall urging Akeley to move to Brattleboro at once, and place himself under

the protection of the authorities; adding that I would come to that town with the phonograph

record and help convince the courts of his sanity. It was time, too, I think I wrote, to alarm the

people generally against this thing in their midst. It will be observed that at this moment of

stress my own belief in all Akeley had told and claimed was virtually complete, though I did

think his failure to get a picture of the dead monster was due not to any freak of Nature but to

some excited slip of his own.

Then, apparently crossing my incoherent note and reaching me Saturday afternoon,

September 8th, came that curiously different and calming letter neatly typed on a new

machine; that strange letter of reassurance and invitation which must have marked so

prodigious a transition in the whole nightmare drama of the lonely hills. Again I will quote from

memory—seeking for special reasons to preserve as much of the flavour of the style as I can.

It was postmarked Bellows Falls, and the signature as well as the body of the letter was

typed—as is frequent with beginners in typing. The text, though, was marvellously accurate

for a tyro‘s work; and I concluded that Akeley must have used a machine at some previous

period—perhaps in college. To say that the letter relieved me would be only fair, yet beneath

my relief lay a substratum of uneasiness. If Akeley had been sane in his terror, was he now

sane in his deliverance? And the sort of ―improved rapport‖ mentioned . . . what was it? The

entire thing implied such a diametrical reversal of Akeley‘s previous attitude! But here is the

substance of the text, carefully transcribed from a memory in which I take some pride.

Townshend, Vermont,

Thursday, Sept. 6, 1928.

My dear Wilmarth:—

It gives me great pleasure to be able to set you at rest regarding all the silly things

I‘ve been writing you. I say ―silly‖, although by that I mean my frightened attitude

rather than my descriptions of certain phenomena. Those phenomena are real and

important enough; my mistake had been in establishing an anomalous attitude

toward them.

I think I mentioned that my strange visitors were beginning to communicate with

me, and to attempt such communication. Last night this exchange of speech

became actual. In response to certain signals I admitted to the house a messenger

from those outside—a fellow-human, let me hasten to say. He told me much that

neither you nor I had even begun to guess, and shewed clearly how totally we had

misjudged and misinterpreted the purpose of the Outer Ones in maintaining their

secret colony on this planet.

It seems that the evil legends about what they have offered to men, and what they

wish in connexion with the earth, are wholly the result of an ignorant misconception

of allegorical speech—speech, of course, moulded by cultural backgrounds and

thought-habits vastly different from anything we dream of. My own conjectures, I

freely own, shot as widely past the mark as any of the guesses of illiterate farmers

and savage Indians. What I had thought morbid and shameful and ignominious is

in reality awesome and mind-expanding and even glorious—my previous estimate

being merely a phase of man‘s eternal tendency to hate and fear and shrink from

the utterly different.

Now I regret the harm I have inflicted upon these alien and incredible beings in the

course of our nightly skirmishes. If only I had consented to talk peacefully and

reasonably with them in the first place! But they bear me no grudge, their emotions

being organised very differently from ours. It is their misfortune to have had as their

human agents in Vermont some very inferior specimens—the late Walter Brown,

for example. He prejudiced me vastly against them. Actually, they have never

knowingly harmed men, but have often been cruelly wronged and spied upon by

our species. There is a whole secret cult of evil men (a man of your mystical

erudition will understand me when I link them with Hastur and the Yellow Sign)

devoted to the purpose of tracking them down and injuring them on behalf of

monstrous powers from other dimensions. It is against these aggressors—not

against normal humanity—that the drastic precautions of the Outer Ones are

directed. Incidentally, I learned that many of our lost letters were stolen not by the

Outer Ones but by the emissaries of this malign cult.

All that the Outer Ones wish of man is peace and non-molestation and an

increasing intellectual rapport. This latter is absolutely necessary now that our

inventions and devices are expanding our knowledge and motions, and making it

more and more impossible for the Outer Ones‘ necessary outposts to exist secretly

on this planet. The alien beings desire to know mankind more fully, and to have a

few of mankind‘s philosophic and scientific leaders know more about them. With

such an exchange of knowledge all perils will pass, and a satisfactory modus

vivendi be established. The very idea of any attempt to enslave or degrade

mankind is ridiculous.

As a beginning of this improved rapport, the Outer Ones have naturally chosen

me—whose knowledge of them is already so considerable—as their primary

interpreter on earth. Much was told me last night—facts of the most stupendous

and vista-opening nature—and more will be subsequently communicated to me

both orally and in writing. I shall not be called upon to make any trip outside just

yet, though I shall probably wish to do so later on—employing special means and

transcending everything which we have hitherto been accustomed to regard as

human experience. My house will be besieged no longer. Everything has reverted

to normal, and the dogs will have no further occupation. In place of terror I have

been given a rich boon of knowledge and intellectual adventure which few other

mortals have ever shared.

The Outer Beings are perhaps the most marvellous organic things in or beyond all

space and time—members of a cosmos-wide race of which all other life-forms are

merely degenerate variants. They are more vegetable than animal, if these terms

can be applied to the sort of matter composing them, and have a somewhat

fungoid structure; though the presence of a chlorophyll-like substance and a very

singular nutritive system differentiate them altogether from true cormophytic fungi.

Indeed, the type is composed of a form of matter totally alien to our part of space—

with electrons having a wholly different vibration-rate. That is why the beings

cannot be photographed on the ordinary camera films and plates of our known

universe, even though our eyes can see them. With proper knowledge, however,

any good chemist could make a photographic emulsion which would record their

images.

The genus is unique in its ability to traverse the heatless and airless interstellar

void in full corporeal form, and some of its variants cannot do this without

mechanical aid or curious surgical transpositions. Only a few species have the

ether-resisting wings characteristic of the Vermont variety. Those inhabiting certain

remote peaks in the Old World were brought in other ways. Their external

resemblance to animal life, and to the sort of structure we understand as material,

is a matter of parallel evolution rather than of close kinship. Their brain-capacity

exceeds that of any other surviving life-form, although the winged types of our hill

country are by no means the most highly developed. Telepathy is their usual

means of discourse, though they have rudimentary vocal organs which, after a

slight operation (for surgery is an incredibly expert and every-day thing among

them), can roughly duplicate the speech of such types of organism as still use

speech.

Their main immediate abode is a still undiscovered and almost lightless planet at

the very edge of our solar system—beyond Neptune, and the ninth in distance from

the sun. It is, as we have inferred, the object mystically hinted at as ―Yuggoth‖ in

certain ancient and forbidden writings; and it will soon be the scene of a strange

focussing of thought upon our world in an effort to facilitate mental rapport. I would

not be surprised if astronomers became sufficiently sensitive to these thought-

currents to discover Yuggoth when the Outer Ones wish them to do so. But

Yuggoth, of course, is only the stepping-stone. The main body of the beings

inhabits strangely organised abysses wholly beyond the utmost reach of any

human imagination. The space-time globule which we recognise as the totality of

all cosmic entity is only an atom in the genuine infinity which is theirs. And as much

of this infinity as any human brain can hold is eventually to be opened up to me, as

it has been to not more than fifty other men since the human race has existed.

You will probably call this raving at first, Wilmarth, but in time you will appreciate

the titanic opportunity I have stumbled upon. I want you to share as much of it as is

possible, and to that end must tell you thousands of things that won‘t go on paper.

In the past I have warned you not to come to see me. Now that all is safe, I take

pleasure in rescinding that warning and inviting you.

Can‘t you make a trip up here before your college term opens? It would be

marvellously delightful if you could. Bring along the phonograph record and all my

letters to you as consultative data—we shall need them in piecing together the

whole tremendous story. You might bring the kodak prints, too, since I seem to

have mislaid the negatives and my own prints in all this recent excitement. But

what a wealth of facts I have to add to all this groping and tentative material—and

what a stupendous device I have to supplement my additions!

Don‘t hesitate—I am free from espionage now, and you will not meet anything

unnatural or disturbing. Just come along and let my car meet you at the Brattleboro

station—prepare to stay as long as you can, and expect many an evening of

discussion of things beyond all human conjecture. Don‘t tell anyone about it, of

course—for this matter must not get to the promiscuous public.

The train service to Brattleboro is not bad—you can get a time-table in Boston.

Take the B. & M. to Greenfield, and then change for the brief remainder of the way.

I suggest your taking the convenient 4:10 p.m.—standard—from Boston. This gets

into Greenfield at 7:35, and at 9:19 a train leaves there which reaches Brattleboro

at 10:01. That is week-days. Let me know the date and I‘ll have my car on hand at

the station.

Pardon this typed letter, but my handwriting has grown shaky of late, as you know,

and I don‘t feel equal to long stretches of script. I got this new Corona in

Brattleboro yesterday—it seems to work very well.

Awaiting word, and hoping to see you shortly with the phonograph record and all

my letters—and the kodak prints—

I am

Yours in anticipation,

HENRY W. AKELEY.

To Albert N. Wilmarth, Esq.,

Miskatonic University,

Arkham, Mass.

The complexity of my emotions upon reading, re-reading, and pondering over this strange

and unlooked-for letter is past adequate description. I have said that I was at once relieved

and made uneasy, but this expresses only crudely the overtones of diverse and largely

subconscious feelings which comprised both the relief and the uneasiness. To begin with, the

thing was so antipodally at variance with the whole chain of horrors preceding it—the change

of mood from stark terror to cool complacency and even exultation was so unheralded,

lightning-like, and complete! I could scarcely believe that a single day could so alter the

psychological perspective of one who had written that final frenzied bulletin of Wednesday, no

matter what relieving disclosures that day might have brought. At certain moments a sense of

conflicting unrealities made me wonder whether this whole distantly reported drama of

fantastic forces were not a kind of half-illusory dream created largely within my own mind.

Then I thought of the phonograph record and gave way to still greater bewilderment.

The letter seemed so unlike anything which could have been expected! As I analysed my

impression, I saw that it consisted of two distinct phases. First, granting that Akeley had been

sane before and was still sane, the indicated change in the situation itself was so swift and

unthinkable. And secondly, the change in Akeley‘s own manner, attitude, and language was

so vastly beyond the normal or the predictable. The man‘s whole personality seemed to have

undergone an insidious mutation—a mutation so deep that one could scarcely reconcile his

two aspects with the supposition that both represented equal sanity. Word-choice, spelling—

all were subtly different. And with my academic sensitiveness to prose style, I could trace

profound divergences in his commonest reactions and rhythm-responses. Certainly, the

emotional cataclysm or revelation which could produce so radical an overturn must be an

extreme one indeed! Yet in another way the letter seemed quite characteristic of Akeley. The

same old passion for infinity—the same old scholarly inquisitiveness. I could not a moment—

or more than a moment—credit the idea of spuriousness or malign substitution. Did not the

invitation—the willingness to have me test the truth of the letter in person—prove its

genuineness?

I did not retire Saturday night, but sat up thinking of the shadows and marvels behind the

letter I had received. My mind, aching from the quick succession of monstrous conceptions it

had been forced to confront during the last four months, worked upon this startling new

material in a cycle of doubt and acceptance which repeated most of the steps experienced in

facing the earlier wonders; till long before dawn a burning interest and curiosity had begun to

replace the original storm of perplexity and uneasiness. Mad or sane, metamorphosed or

merely relieved, the chances were that Akeley had actually encountered some stupendous

change of perspective in his hazardous research; some change at once diminishing his

danger—real or fancied—and opening dizzy new vistas of cosmic and superhuman

knowledge. My own zeal for the unknown flared up to meet his, and I felt myself touched by

the contagion of the morbid barrier-breaking. To shake off the maddening and wearying

limitations of time and space and natural law—to be linked with the vast outside—to come

close to the nighted and abysmal secrets of the infinite and the ultimate—surely such a thing

was worth the risk of one‘s life, soul, and sanity! And Akeley had said there was no longer any

peril—he had invited me to visit him instead of warning me away as before. I tingled at the

thought of what he might now have to tell me—there was an almost paralysing fascination in

the thought of sitting in that lonely and lately beleaguered farmhouse with a man who had

talked with actual emissaries from outer space; sitting there with the terrible record and the

pile of letters in which Akeley had summarised his earlier conclusions.

So late Sunday morning I telegraphed Akeley that I would meet him in Brattleboro on the

following Wednesday—September 12th—if that date were convenient for him. In only one

respect did I depart from his suggestions, and that concerned the choice of a train. Frankly, I

did not feel like arriving in that haunted Vermont region late at night; so instead of accepting

the train he chose I telephoned the station and devised another arrangement. By rising early

and taking the 8:07 a.m. (standard) into Boston, I could catch the 9:25 for Greenfield; arriving

there at 12:22 noon. This connected exactly with a train reaching Brattleboro at 1:08 p.m.—a

much more comfortable hour than 10:01 for meeting Akeley and riding with him into the close-

packed, secret-guarding hills.

I mentioned this choice in my telegram, and was glad to learn in the reply which came toward

evening that it had met with my prospective host‘s endorsement. His wire ran thus:

ARRANGEMENT SATISFACTORY. WILL MEET 1:08 TRAIN WEDNESDAY.

DON‘T FORGET RECORD AND LETTERS AND PRINTS. KEEP DESTINATION

QUIET. EXPECT GREAT REVELATIONS.

AKELEY.

Receipt of this message in direct response to one sent to Akeley—and necessarily delivered

to his house from the Townshend station either by official messenger or by a restored

telephone service—removed any lingering subconscious doubts I may have had about the

authorship of the perplexing letter. My relief was marked—indeed, it was greater than I could

account for at that time; since all such doubts had been rather deeply buried. But I slept

soundly and long that night, and was eagerly busy with preparations during the ensuing two

days.

VI.

On Wednesday I started as agreed, taking with me a valise full of simple necessities and

scientific data, including the hideous phonograph record, the kodak prints, and the entire file

of Akeley‘s correspondence. As requested, I had told no one where I was going; for I could

see that the matter demanded utmost privacy, even allowing for its most favourable turns. The

thought of actual mental contact with alien, outside entities was stupefying enough to my

trained and somewhat prepared mind; and this being so, what might one think of its effect on

the vast masses of uninformed laymen? I do not know whether dread or adventurous

expectancy was uppermost in me as I changed trains in Boston and began the long westward

run out of familiar regions into those I knew less thoroughly. Waltham—Concord—Ayer—

Fitchburg—Gardner—Athol—

My train reached Greenfield seven minutes late, but the northbound connecting express had

been held. Transferring in haste, I felt a curious breathlessness as the cars rumbled on

through the early afternoon sunlight into territories I had always read of but had never before

visited. I knew I was entering an altogether older-fashioned and more primitive New England

than the mechanised, urbanised coastal and southern areas where all my life had been spent;

an unspoiled, ancestral New England without the foreigners and factory-smoke, billboards

and concrete roads, of the sections which modernity has touched. There would be odd

survivals of that continuous native life whose deep roots make it the one authentic outgrowth

of the landscape—the continuous native life which keeps alive strange ancient memories, and

fertilises the soil for shadowy, marvellous, and seldom-mentioned beliefs.

Now and then I saw the blue Connecticut River gleaming in the sun, and after leaving

Northfield we crossed it. Ahead loomed green and cryptical hills, and when the conductor

came around I learned that I was at last in Vermont. He told me to set my watch back an hour,

since the northern hill country will have no dealings with new-fangled daylight time schemes.

As I did so it seemed to me that I was likewise turning the calendar back a century.

The train kept close to the river, and across in New Hampshire I could see the approaching

slope of steep Wantastiquet, about which singular old legends cluster. Then streets appeared

on my left, and a green island shewed in the stream on my right. People rose and filed to the

door, and I followed them. The car stopped, and I alighted beneath the long train-shed of the

Brattleboro station.

Looking over the line of waiting motors I hesitated a moment to see which one might turn out

to be the Akeley Ford, but my identity was divined before I could take the initiative. And yet it

was clearly not Akeley himself who advanced to meet me with an outstretched hand and a

mellowly phrased query as to whether I was indeed Mr. Albert N. Wilmarth of Arkham. This

man bore no resemblance to the bearded, grizzled Akeley of the snapshot; but was a younger

and more urban person, fashionably dressed, and wearing only a small, dark moustache. His

cultivated voice held an odd and almost disturbing hint of vague familiarity, though I could not

definitely place it in my memory.

As I surveyed him I heard him explaining that he was a friend of my prospective host‘s who

had come down from Townshend in his stead. Akeley, he declared, had suffered a sudden

attack of some asthmatic trouble, and did not feel equal to making a trip in the outdoor air. It

was not serious, however, and there was to be no change in plans regarding my visit. I could

not make out just how much this Mr. Noyes—as he announced himself—knew of Akeley‘s

researches and discoveries, though it seemed to me that his casual manner stamped him as

a comparative outsider. Remembering what a hermit Akeley had been, I was a trifle surprised

at the ready availability of such a friend; but did not let my puzzlement deter me from entering

the motor to which he gestured me. It was not the small ancient car I had expected from

Akeley‘s descriptions, but a large and immaculate specimen of recent pattern—apparently

Noyes‘s own, and bearing Massachusetts licence plates with the amusing ―sacred codfish‖

device of that year. My guide, I concluded, must be a summer transient in the Townshend

region.

Noyes climbed into the car beside me and started it at once. I was glad that he did not

overflow with conversation, for some peculiar atmospheric tensity made me feel disinclined to

talk. The town seemed very attractive in the afternoon sunlight as we swept up an incline and

turned to the right into the main street. It drowsed like the older New England cities which one

remembers from boyhood, and something in the collocation of roofs and steeples and

chimneys and brick walls formed contours touching deep viol-strings of ancestral emotion. I

could tell that I was at the gateway of a region half-bewitched through the piling-up of

unbroken time-accumulations; a region where old, strange things have had a chance to grow

and linger because they have never been stirred up.

As we passed out of Brattleboro my sense of constraint and foreboding increased, for a

vague quality in the hill-crowded countryside with its towering, threatening, close-pressing

green and granite slopes hinted at obscure secrets and immemorial survivals which might or

might not be hostile to mankind. For a time our course followed a broad, shallow river which

flowed down from unknown hills in the north, and I shivered when my companion told me it

was the West River. It was in this stream, I recalled from newspaper items, that one of the

morbid crab-like beings had been seen floating after the floods.

Gradually the country around us grew wilder and more deserted. Archaic covered bridges

lingered fearsomely out of the past in pockets of the hills, and the half-abandoned railway

track paralleling the river seemed to exhale a nebulously visible air of desolation. There were

awesome sweeps of vivid valley where great cliffs rose, New England‘s virgin granite shewing

grey and austere through the verdure that scaled the crests. There were gorges where

untamed streams leaped, bearing down toward the river the unimagined secrets of a

thousand pathless peaks. Branching away now and then were narrow, half-concealed roads

that bored their way through solid, luxuriant masses of forest among whose primal trees

whole armies of elemental spirits might well lurk. As I saw these I thought of how Akeley had

been molested by unseen agencies on his drives along this very route, and did not wonder

that such things could be.

The quaint, sightly village of Newfane, reached in less than an hour, was our last link with that

world which man can definitely call his own by virtue of conquest and complete occupancy.

After that we cast off all allegiance to immediate, tangible, and time-touched things, and

entered a fantastic world of hushed unreality in which the narrow, ribbon-like road rose and

fell and curved with an almost sentient and purposeful caprice amidst the tenantless green

peaks and half-deserted valleys. Except for the sound of the motor, and the faint stir of the

few lonely farms we passed at infrequent intervals, the only thing that reached my ears was

the gurgling, insidious trickle of strange waters from numberless hidden fountains in the

shadowy woods.

The nearness and intimacy of the dwarfed, domed hills now became veritably breath-taking.

Their steepness and abruptness were even greater than I had imagined from hearsay, and

suggested nothing in common with the prosaic objective world we know. The dense, unvisited

woods on those inaccessible slopes seemed to harbour alien and incredible things, and I felt

that the very outline of the hills themselves held some strange and aeon-forgotten meaning,

as if they were vast hieroglyphs left by a rumoured titan race whose glories live only in rare,

deep dreams. All the legends of the past, and all the stupefying imputations of Henry Akeley‘s

letters and exhibits, welled up in my memory to heighten the atmosphere of tension and

growing menace. The purpose of my visit, and the frightful abnormalities it postulated, struck

me all at once with a chill sensation that nearly overbalanced my ardour for strange delvings.

My guide must have noticed my disturbed attitude; for as the road grew wilder and more

irregular, and our motion slower and more jolting, his occasional pleasant comments

expanded into a steadier flow of discourse. He spoke of the beauty and weirdness of the

country, and revealed some acquaintance with the folklore studies of my prospective host.

From his polite questions it was obvious that he knew I had come for a scientific purpose, and

that I was bringing data of some importance; but he gave no sign of appreciating the depth

and awfulness of the knowledge which Akeley had finally reached.

His manner was so cheerful, normal, and urbane that his remarks ought to have calmed and

reassured me; but oddly enough, I felt only the more disturbed as we bumped and veered

onward into the unknown wilderness of hills and woods. At times it seemed as if he were

pumping me to see what I knew of the monstrous secrets of the place, and with every fresh

utterance that vague, teasing, baffling familiarity in his voice increased. It was not an ordinary

or healthy familiarity despite the thoroughly wholesome and cultivated nature of the voice. I

somehow linked it with forgotten nightmares, and felt that I might go mad if I recognised it. If

any good excuse had existed, I think I would have turned back from my visit. As it was, I could

not well do so—and it occurred to me that a cool, scientific conversation with Akeley himself

after my arrival would help greatly to pull me together.

Besides, there was a strangely calming element of cosmic beauty in the hypnotic landscape

through which we climbed and plunged fantastically. Time had lost itself in the labyrinths

behind, and around us stretched only the flowering waves of faery and the recaptured

loveliness of vanished centuries—the hoary groves, the untainted pastures edged with gay

autumnal blossoms, and at vast intervals the small brown farmsteads nestling amidst huge

trees beneath vertical precipices of fragrant brier and meadow-grass. Even the sunlight

assumed a supernal glamour, as if some special atmosphere or exhalation mantled the whole

region. I had seen nothing like it before save in the magic vistas that sometimes form the

backgrounds of Italian primitives. Sodoma and Leonardo conceived such expanses, but only

in the distance, and through the vaultings of Renaissance arcades. We were now burrowing

bodily through the midst of the picture, and I seemed to find in its necromancy a thing I had

innately known or inherited, and for which I had always been vainly searching.

Suddenly, after rounding an obtuse angle at the top of a sharp ascent, the car came to a

standstill. On my left, across a well-kept lawn which stretched to the road and flaunted a

border of whitewashed stones, rose a white, two-and-a-half-story house of unusual size and

elegance for the region, with a congeries of contiguous or arcade-linked barns, sheds, and

windmill behind and to the right. I recognised it at once from the snapshot I had received, and

was not surprised to see the name of Henry Akeley on the galvanised-iron mail-box near the

road. For some distance back of the house a level stretch of marshy and sparsely wooded

land extended, beyond which soared a steep, thickly forested hillside ending in a jagged leafy

crest. This latter, I knew, was the summit of Dark Mountain, half way up which we must have

climbed already.

Alighting from the car and taking my valise, Noyes asked me to wait while he went in and

notified Akeley of my advent. He himself, he added, had important business elsewhere, and

could not stop for more than a moment. As he briskly walked up the path to the house I

climbed out of the car myself, wishing to stretch my legs a little before settling down to a

sedentary conversation. My feeling of nervousness and tension had risen to a maximum

again now that I was on the actual scene of the morbid beleaguering described so hauntingly

in Akeley‘s letters, and I honestly dreaded the coming discussions which were to link me with

such alien and forbidden worlds.

Close contact with the utterly bizarre is often more terrifying than inspiring, and it did not cheer

me to think that this very bit of dusty road was the place where those monstrous tracks and

that foetid green ichor had been found after moonless nights of fear and death. Idly I noticed

that none of Akeley‘s dogs seemed to be about. Had he sold them all as soon as the Outer

Ones made peace with him? Try as I might, I could not have the same confidence in the

depth and sincerity of that peace which appeared in Akeley‘s final and queerly different letter.

After all, he was a man of much simplicity and with little worldly experience. Was there not,

perhaps, some deep and sinister undercurrent beneath the surface of the new alliance?

Led by my thoughts, my eyes turned downward to the powdery road surface which had held

such hideous testimonies. The last few days had been dry, and tracks of all sorts cluttered the

rutted, irregular highway despite the unfrequented nature of the district. With a vague curiosity

I began to trace the outline of some of the heterogeneous impressions, trying meanwhile to

curb the flights of macabre fancy which the place and its memories suggested. There was

something menacing and uncomfortable in the funereal stillness, in the muffled, subtle trickle

of distant brooks, and in the crowding green peaks and black-wooded precipices that choked

the narrow horizon.

And then an image shot into my consciousness which made those vague menaces and flights

of fancy seem mild and insignificant indeed. I have said that I was scanning the

miscellaneous prints in the road with a kind of idle curiosity—but all at once that curiosity was

shockingly snuffed out by a sudden and paralysing gust of active terror. For though the dust

tracks were in general confused and overlapping, and unlikely to arrest any casual gaze, my

restless vision had caught certain details near the spot where the path to the house joined the

highway; and had recognised beyond doubt or hope the frightful significance of those details.

It was not for nothing, alas, that I had pored for hours over the kodak views of the Outer Ones‘

claw-prints which Akeley had sent. Too well did I know the marks of those loathsome nippers,

and that hint of ambiguous direction which stamped the horrors as no creatures of this planet.

No chance had been left me for merciful mistake. Here, indeed, in objective form before my

own eyes, and surely made not many hours ago, were at least three marks which stood out

blasphemously among the surprising plethora of blurred footprints leading to and from the

Akeley farmhouse. They were the hellish tracks of the living fungi from Yuggoth.

I pulled myself together in time to stifle a scream. After all, what more was there than I might

have expected, assuming that I had really believed Akeley‘s letters? He had spoken of

making peace with the things. Why, then, was it strange that some of them had visited his

house? But the terror was stronger than the reassurance. Could any man be expected to look

unmoved for the first time upon the claw-marks of animate beings from outer depths of

space? Just then I saw Noyes emerge from the door and approach with a brisk step. I must, I

reflected, keep command of myself, for the chances were this genial friend knew nothing of

Akeley‘s profoundest and most stupendous probings into the forbidden.

Akeley, Noyes hastened to inform me, was glad and ready to see me; although his sudden

attack of asthma would prevent him from being a very competent host for a day or two. These

spells hit him hard when they came, and were always accompanied by a debilitating fever and

general weakness. He never was good for much while they lasted—had to talk in a whisper,

and was very clumsy and feeble in getting about. His feet and ankles swelled, too, so that he

had to bandage them like a gouty old beef-eater. Today he was in rather bad shape, so that I

would have to attend very largely to my own needs; but he was none the less eager for

conversation. I would find him in the study at the left of the front hall—the room where the

blinds were shut. He had to keep the sunlight out when he was ill, for his eyes were very

sensitive.

As Noyes bade me adieu and rode off northward in his car I began to walk slowly toward the

house. The door had been left ajar for me; but before approaching and entering I cast a

searching glance around the whole place, trying to decide what had struck me as so

intangibly queer about it. The barns and sheds looked trimly prosaic enough, and I noticed

Akeley‘s battered Ford in its capacious, unguarded shelter. Then the secret of the queerness

reached me. It was the total silence. Ordinarily a farm is at least moderately murmurous from

its various kinds of livestock, but here all signs of life were missing. What of the hens and the

hogs? The cows, of which Akeley had said he possessed several, might conceivably be out to

pasture, and the dogs might possibly have been sold; but the absence of any trace of cackling

or grunting was truly singular.

I did not pause long on the path, but resolutely entered the open house door and closed it

behind me. It had cost me a distinct psychological effort to do so, and now that I was shut

inside I had a momentary longing for precipitate retreat. Not that the place was in the least

sinister in visual suggestion; on the contrary, I thought the graceful late-colonial hallway very

tasteful and wholesome, and admired the evident breeding of the man who had furnished it.

What made me wish to flee was something very attenuated and indefinable. Perhaps it was a

certain odd odour which I thought I noticed—though I well knew how common musty odours

are in even the best of ancient farmhouses.

VII.

Refusing to let these cloudy qualms overmaster me, I recalled Noyes‘s instructions and

pushed open the six-panelled, brass-latched white door on my left. The room beyond was

darkened, as I had known before; and as I entered it I noticed that the queer odour was

stronger there. There likewise appeared to be some faint, half-imaginary rhythm or vibration in

the air. For a moment the closed blinds allowed me to see very little, but then a kind of

apologetic hacking or whispering sound drew my attention to a great easy-chair in the farther,

darker corner of the room. Within its shadowy depths I saw the white blur of a man‘s face and

hands; and in a moment I had crossed to greet the figure who had tried to speak. Dim though

the light was, I perceived that this was indeed my host. I had studied the kodak picture

repeatedly, and there could be no mistake about this firm, weather-beaten face with the

cropped, grizzled beard.

But as I looked again my recognition was mixed with sadness and anxiety; for certainly, this

face was that of a very sick man. I felt that there must be something more than asthma behind

that strained, rigid, immobile expression and unwinking glassy stare; and realised how terribly

the strain of his frightful experiences must have told on him. Was it not enough to break any

human being—even a younger man than this intrepid delver into the forbidden? The strange

and sudden relief, I feared, had come too late to save him from something like a general

breakdown. There was a touch of the pitiful in the limp, lifeless way his lean hands rested in

his lap. He had on a loose dressing-gown, and was swathed around the head and high

around the neck with a vivid yellow scarf or hood.

And then I saw that he was trying to talk in the same hacking whisper with which he had

greeted me. It was a hard whisper to catch at first, since the grey moustache concealed all

movements of the lips, and something in its timbre disturbed me greatly; but by concentrating

my attention I could soon make out its purport surprisingly well. The accent was by no means

a rustic one, and the language was even more polished than correspondence had led me to

expect.

―Mr. Wilmarth, I presume? You must pardon my not rising. I am quite ill, as Mr. Noyes must

have told you; but I could not resist having you come just the same. You know what I wrote in

my last letter—there is so much to tell you tomorrow when I shall feel better. I can‘t say how

glad I am to see you in person after all our many letters. You have the file with you, of course?

And the kodak prints and record? Noyes put your valise in the hall—I suppose you saw it. For

tonight I fear you‘ll have to wait on yourself to a great extent. Your room is upstairs—the one

over this—and you‘ll see the bathroom door open at the head of the staircase. There‘s a meal

spread for you in the dining-room—right through this door at your right—which you can take

whenever you feel like it. I‘ll be a better host tomorrow—but just now weakness leaves me

helpless.

―Make yourself at home—you might take out the letters and pictures and record and put them

on the table here before you go upstairs with your bag. It is here that we shall discuss them—

you can see my phonograph on that corner stand.

―No, thanks—there‘s nothing you can do for me. I know these spells of old. Just come back

for a little quiet visiting before night, and then go to bed when you please. I‘ll rest right here—

perhaps sleep here all night as I often do. In the morning I‘ll be far better able to go into the

things we must go into. You realise, of course, the utterly stupendous nature of the matter

before us. To us, as to only a few men on this earth, there will be opened up gulfs of time and

space and knowledge beyond anything within the conception of human science and

philosophy.

―Do you know that Einstein is wrong, and that certain objects and forces can move with a

velocity greater than that of light? With proper aid I expect to go backward and forward in

time, and actually see and feel the earth of remote past and future epochs. You can‘t imagine

the degree to which those beings have carried science. There is nothing they can‘t do with the

mind and body of living organisms. I expect to visit other planets, and even other stars and

galaxies. The first trip will be to Yuggoth, the nearest world fully peopled by the beings. It is a

strange dark orb at the very rim of our solar system—unknown to earthly astronomers as yet.

But I must have written you about this. At the proper time, you know, the beings there will

direct thought-currents toward us and cause it to be discovered—or perhaps let one of their

human allies give the scientists a hint.

―There are mighty cities on Yuggoth—great tiers of terraced towers built of black stone like the

specimen I tried to send you. That came from Yuggoth. The sun shines there no brighter than

a star, but the beings need no light. They have other, subtler senses, and put no windows in

their great houses and temples. Light even hurts and hampers and confuses them, for it does

not exist at all in the black cosmos outside time and space where they came from originally.

To visit Yuggoth would drive any weak man mad—yet I am going there. The black rivers of

pitch that flow under those mysterious Cyclopean bridges—things built by some elder race

extinct and forgotten before the things came to Yuggoth from the ultimate voids—ought to be

enough to make any man a Dante or Poe if he can keep sane long enough to tell what he has

seen.

―But remember—that dark world of fungoid gardens and windowless cities isn‘t really terrible.

It is only to us that it would seem so. Probably this world seemed just as terrible to the beings

when they first explored it in the primal age. You know they were here long before the

fabulous epoch of Cthulhu was over, and remember all about sunken R‘lyeh when it was

above the waters. They‘ve been inside the earth, too—there are openings which human

beings know nothing of—some of them in these very Vermont hills—and great worlds of

unknown life down there; blue-litten K‘n-yan, red-litten Yoth, and black, lightless N‘kai. It‘s

from N‘kai that frightful Tsathoggua came—you know, the amorphous, toad-like god-creature

mentioned in the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the Necronomicon and the Commoriom myth-

cycle preserved by the Atlantean high-priest Klarkash-Ton.

―But we will talk of all this later on. It must be four or five o‘clock by this time. Better bring the

stuff from your bag, take a bite, and then come back for a comfortable chat.‖

Very slowly I turned and began to obey my host; fetching my valise, extracting and depositing

the desired articles, and finally ascending to the room designated as mine. With the memory

of that roadside claw-print fresh in my mind, Akeley‘s whispered paragraphs had affected me

queerly; and the hints of familiarity with this unknown world of fungous life—forbidden

Yuggoth—made my flesh creep more than I cared to own. I was tremendously sorry about

Akeley‘s illness, but had to confess that his hoarse whisper had a hateful as well as pitiful

quality. If only he wouldn‘t gloat so about Yuggoth and its black secrets!

My room proved a very pleasant and well-furnished one, devoid alike of the musty odour and

disturbing sense of vibration; and after leaving my valise there I descended again to greet

Akeley and take the lunch he had set out for me. The dining-room was just beyond the study,

and I saw that a kitchen ell extended still farther in the same direction. On the dining-table an

ample array of sandwiches, cake, and cheese awaited me, and a Thermos-bottle beside a

cup and saucer testified that hot coffee had not been forgotten. After a well-relished meal I

poured myself a liberal cup of coffee, but found that the culinary standard had suffered a

lapse in this one detail. My first spoonful revealed a faintly unpleasant acrid taste, so that I did

not take more. Throughout the lunch I thought of Akeley sitting silently in the great chair in the

darkened next room. Once I went in to beg him to share the repast, but he whispered that he

could eat nothing as yet. Later on, just before he slept, he would take some malted milk—all

he ought to have that day.

After lunch I insisted on clearing the dishes away and washing them in the kitchen sink—

incidentally emptying the coffee which I had not been able to appreciate. Then returning to the

darkened study I drew up a chair near my host‘s corner and prepared for such conversation

as he might feel inclined to conduct. The letters, pictures, and record were still on the large

centre-table, but for the nonce we did not have to draw upon them. Before long I forgot even

the bizarre odour and curious suggestions of vibration.

I have said that there were things in some of Akeley‘s letters—especially the second and most

voluminous one—which I would not dare to quote or even form into words on paper. This

hesitancy applies with still greater force to the things I heard whispered that evening in the

darkened room among the lonely haunted hills. Of the extent of the cosmic horrors unfolded

by that raucous voice I cannot even hint. He had known hideous things before, but what he

had learned since making his pact with the Outside Things was almost too much for sanity to

bear. Even now I absolutely refuse to believe what he implied about the constitution of

ultimate infinity, the juxtaposition of dimensions, and the frightful position of our known

cosmos of space and time in the unending chain of linked cosmos-atoms which makes up the

immediate super-cosmos of curves, angles, and material and semi-material electronic

organisation.

Never was a sane man more dangerously close to the arcana of basic entity—never was an

organic brain nearer to utter annihilation in the chaos that transcends form and force and

symmetry. I learned whence Cthulhu first came, and why half the great temporary stars of

history had flared forth. I guessed—from hints which made even my informant pause timidly—

the secret behind the Magellanic Clouds and globular nebulae, and the black truth veiled by

the immemorial allegory of Tao. The nature of the Doels was plainly revealed, and I was told

the essence (though not the source) of the Hounds of Tindalos. The legend of Yig, Father of

Serpents, remained figurative no longer, and I started with loathing when told of the

monstrous nuclear chaos beyond angled space which the Necronomicon had mercifully

cloaked under the name of Azathoth. It was shocking to have the foulest nightmares of secret

myth cleared up in concrete terms whose stark, morbid hatefulness exceeded the boldest

hints of ancient and mediaeval mystics. Ineluctably I was led to believe that the first

whisperers of these accursed tales must have had discourse with Akeley‘s Outer Ones, and

perhaps have visited outer cosmic realms as Akeley now proposed visiting them.

I was told of the Black Stone and what it implied, and was glad that it had not reached me. My

guesses about those hieroglyphics had been all too correct! And yet Akeley now seemed

reconciled to the whole fiendish system he had stumbled upon; reconciled and eager to probe

farther into the monstrous abyss. I wondered what beings he had talked with since his last

letter to me, and whether many of them had been as human as that first emissary he had

mentioned. The tension in my head grew insufferable, and I built up all sorts of wild theories

about the queer, persistent odour and those insidious hints of vibration in the darkened room.

Night was falling now, and as I recalled what Akeley had written me about those earlier nights

I shuddered to think there would be no moon. Nor did I like the way the farmhouse nestled in

the lee of that colossal forested slope leading up to Dark Mountain‘s unvisited crest. With

Akeley‘s permission I lighted a small oil lamp, turned it low, and set it on a distant bookcase

beside the ghostly bust of Milton; but afterward I was sorry I had done so, for it made my

host‘s strained, immobile face and listless hands look damnably abnormal and corpse-like. He

seemed half-incapable of motion, though I saw him nod stiffly once in a while.

After what he had told, I could scarcely imagine what profounder secrets he was saving for

the morrow; but at last it developed that his trip to Yuggoth and beyond—and my own

possible participation in it—was to be the next day‘s topic. He must have been amused by the

start of horror I gave at hearing a cosmic voyage on my part proposed, for his head wabbled

violently when I shewed my fear. Subsequently he spoke very gently of how human beings

might accomplish—and several times had accomplished—the seemingly impossible flight

across the interstellar void. It seemed that complete human bodies did not indeed make the

trip, but that the prodigious surgical, biological, chemical, and mechanical skill of the Outer

Ones had found a way to convey human brains without their concomitant physical structure.

There was a harmless way to extract a brain, and a way to keep the organic residue alive

during its absence. The bare, compact cerebral matter was then immersed in an occasionally

replenished fluid within an ether-tight cylinder of a metal mined in Yuggoth, certain electrodes

reaching through and connecting at will with elaborate instruments capable of duplicating the

three vital faculties of sight, hearing, and speech. For the winged fungus-beings to carry the

brain-cylinders intact through space was an easy matter. Then, on every planet covered by

their civilisation, they would find plenty of adjustable faculty-instruments capable of being

connected with the encased brains; so that after a little fitting these travelling intelligences

could be given a full sensory and articulate life—albeit a bodiless and mechanical one—at

each stage of their journeying through and beyond the space-time continuum. It was as

simple as carrying a phonograph record about and playing it wherever a phonograph of the

corresponding make exists. Of its success there could be no question. Akeley was not afraid.

Had it not been brilliantly accomplished again and again?

For the first time one of the inert, wasted hands raised itself and pointed to a high shelf on the

farther side of the room. There, in a neat row, stood more than a dozen cylinders of a metal I

had never seen before—cylinders about a foot high and somewhat less in diameter, with

three curious sockets set in an isosceles triangle over the front convex surface of each. One

of them was linked at two of the sockets to a pair of singular-looking machines that stood in

the background. Of their purport I did not need to be told, and I shivered as with ague. Then I

saw the hand point to a much nearer corner where some intricate instruments with attached

cords and plugs, several of them much like the two devices on the shelf behind the cylinders,

were huddled together.

―There are four kinds of instruments here, Wilmarth,‖ whispered the voice. ―Four kinds—three

faculties each—makes twelve pieces in all. You see there are four different sorts of beings

presented in those cylinders up there. Three humans, six fungoid beings who can‘t navigate

space corporeally, two beings from Neptune (God! if you could see the body this type has on

its own planet!), and the rest entities from the central caverns of an especially interesting dark

star beyond the galaxy. In the principal outpost inside Round Hill you‘ll now and then find

more cylinders and machines—cylinders of extra-cosmic brains with different senses from

any we know—allies and explorers from the uttermost Outside—and special machines for

giving them impressions and expression in the several ways suited at once to them and to the

comprehensions of different types of listeners. Round Hill, like most of the beings‘ main

outposts all through the various universes, is a very cosmopolitan place! Of course, only the

more common types have been lent to me for experiment.

―Here—take the three machines I point to and set them on the table. That tall one with the two

glass lenses in front—then the box with the vacuum tubes and sounding-board—and now the

one with the metal disc on top. Now for the cylinder with the label ‗B-67‘ pasted on it. Just

stand in that Windsor chair to reach the shelf. Heavy? Never mind! Be sure of the number—

B-67. Don‘t bother that fresh, shiny cylinder joined to the two testing instruments—the one

with my name on it. Set B-67 on the table near where you‘ve put the machines—and see that

the dial switch on all three machines is jammed over to the extreme left.

―Now connect the cord of the lens machine with the upper socket on the cylinder—there! Join

the tube machine to the lower left-hand socket, and the disc apparatus to the outer socket.

Now move all the dial switches on the machines over to the extreme right—first the lens one,

then the disc one, and then the tube one. That‘s right. I might as well tell you that this is a

human being—just like any of us. I‘ll give you a taste of some of the others tomorrow.‖

To this day I do not know why I obeyed those whispers so slavishly, or whether I thought

Akeley was mad or sane. After what had gone before, I ought to have been prepared for

anything; but this mechanical mummery seemed so like the typical vagaries of crazed

inventors and scientists that it struck a chord of doubt which even the preceding discourse

had not excited. What the whisperer implied was beyond all human belief—yet were not the

other things still farther beyond, and less preposterous only because of their remoteness from

tangible concrete proof?

As my mind reeled amidst this chaos, I became conscious of a mixed grating and whirring

from all three machines lately linked to the cylinder—a grating and whirring which soon

subsided into a virtual noiselessness. What was about to happen? Was I to hear a voice? And

if so, what proof would I have that it was not some cleverly concocted radio device talked into

by a concealed but closely watching speaker? Even now I am unwilling to swear just what I

heard, or just what phenomenon really took place before me. But something certainly seemed

to take place.

To be brief and plain, the machine with the tubes and sound-box began to speak, and with a

point and intelligence which left no doubt that the speaker was actually present and observing

us. The voice was loud, metallic, lifeless, and plainly mechanical in every detail of its

production. It was incapable of inflection or expressiveness, but scraped and rattled on with a

deadly precision and deliberation.

―Mr. Wilmarth,‖ it said, ―I hope I do not startle you. I am a human being like yourself, though

my body is now resting safely under proper vitalising treatment inside Round Hill, about a mile

and a half east of here. I myself am here with you—my brain is in that cylinder and I see,

hear, and speak through these electronic vibrators. In a week I am going across the void as I

have been many times before, and I expect to have the pleasure of Mr. Akeley‘s company. I

wish I might have yours as well; for I know you by sight and reputation, and have kept close

track of your correspondence with our friend. I am, of course, one of the men who have

become allied with the outside beings visiting our planet. I met them first in the Himalayas,

and have helped them in various ways. In return they have given me experiences such as few

men have ever had.

―Do you realise what it means when I say I have been on thirty-seven different celestial

bodies—planets, dark stars, and less definable objects—including eight outside our galaxy

and two outside the curved cosmos of space and time? All this has not harmed me in the

least. My brain has been removed from my body by fissions so adroit that it would be crude to

call the operation surgery. The visiting beings have methods which make these extractions

easy and almost normal—and one‘s body never ages when the brain is out of it. The brain, I

may add, is virtually immortal with its mechanical faculties and a limited nourishment supplied

by occasional changes of the preserving fluid.

―Altogether, I hope most heartily that you will decide to come with Mr. Akeley and me. The

visitors are eager to know men of knowledge like yourself, and to shew them the great

abysses that most of us have had to dream about in fanciful ignorance. It may seem strange

at first to meet them, but I know you will be above minding that. I think Mr. Noyes will go

along, too—the man who doubtless brought you up here in his car. He has been one of us for

years—I suppose you recognised his voice as one of those on the record Mr. Akeley sent

you.‖

At my violent start the speaker paused a moment before concluding.

―So, Mr. Wilmarth, I will leave the matter to you; merely adding that a man with your love of

strangeness and folklore ought never to miss such a chance as this. There is nothing to fear.

All transitions are painless, and there is much to enjoy in a wholly mechanised state of

sensation. When the electrodes are disconnected, one merely drops off into a sleep of

especially vivid and fantastic dreams.

―And now, if you don‘t mind, we might adjourn our session till tomorrow. Good night—just turn

all the switches back to the left; never mind the exact order, though you might let the lens

machine be last. Good night, Mr. Akeley—treat our guest well! Ready now with those

switches?‖

That was all. I obeyed mechanically and shut off all three switches, though dazed with doubt

of everything that had occurred. My head was still reeling as I heard Akeley‘s whispering

voice telling me that I might leave all the apparatus on the table just as it was. He did not

essay any comment on what had happened, and indeed no comment could have conveyed

much to my burdened faculties. I heard him telling me I could take the lamp to use in my

room, and deduced that he wished to rest alone in the dark. It was surely time he rested, for

his discourse of the afternoon and evening had been such as to exhaust even a vigorous

man. Still dazed, I bade my host good night and went upstairs with the lamp, although I had

an excellent pocket flashlight with me.

I was glad to be out of that downstairs study with the queer odour and vague suggestions of

vibration, yet could not of course escape a hideous sense of dread and peril and cosmic

abnormality as I thought of the place I was in and the forces I was meeting. The wild, lonely

region, the black, mysteriously forested slope towering so close behind the house, the

footprints in the road, the sick, motionless whisperer in the dark, the hellish cylinders and

machines, and above all the invitations to strange surgery and stranger voyagings—these

things, all so new and in such sudden succession, rushed in on me with a cumulative force

which sapped my will and almost undermined my physical strength.

To discover that my guide Noyes was the human celebrant in that monstrous bygone Sabbat-

ritual on the phonograph record was a particular shock, though I had previously sensed a dim,

repellent familiarity in his voice. Another special shock came from my own attitude toward my

host whenever I paused to analyse it; for much as I had instinctively liked Akeley as revealed

in his correspondence, I now found that he filled me with a distinct repulsion. His illness ought

to have excited my pity; but instead, it gave me a kind of shudder. He was so rigid and inert

and corpse-like—and that incessant whispering was so hateful and unhuman!

It occurred to me that this whispering was different from anything else of the kind I had ever

heard; that, despite the curious motionlessness of the speaker‘s moustache-screened lips, it

had a latent strength and carrying-power remarkable for the wheezings of an asthmatic. I had

been able to understand the speaker when wholly across the room, and once or twice it had

seemed to me that the faint but penetrant sounds represented not so much weakness as

deliberate repression—for what reason I could not guess. From the first I had felt a disturbing

quality in their timbre. Now, when I tried to weigh the matter, I thought I could trace this

impression to a kind of subconscious familiarity like that which had made Noyes‘s voice so

hazily ominous. But when or where I had encountered the thing it hinted at, was more than I

could tell.

One thing was certain—I would not spend another night here. My scientific zeal had vanished

amidst fear and loathing, and I felt nothing now but a wish to escape from this net of morbidity

and unnatural revelation. I knew enough now. It must indeed be true that cosmic linkages do

exist—but such things are surely not meant for normal human beings to meddle with.

Blasphemous influences seemed to surround me and press chokingly upon my senses.

Sleep, I decided, would be out of the question; so I merely extinguished the lamp and threw

myself on the bed fully dressed. No doubt it was absurd, but I kept ready for some unknown

emergency; gripping in my right hand the revolver I had brought along, and holding the pocket

flashlight in my left. Not a sound came from below, and I could imagine how my host was

sitting there with cadaverous stiffness in the dark.

Somewhere I heard a clock ticking, and was vaguely grateful for the normality of the sound. It

reminded me, though, of another thing about the region which disturbed me—the total

absence of animal life. There were certainly no farm beasts about, and now I realised that

even the accustomed night-noises of wild living things were absent. Except for the sinister

trickle of distant unseen waters, that stillness was anomalous—interplanetary—and I

wondered what star-spawned, intangible blight could be hanging over the region. I recalled

from old legends that dogs and other beasts had always hated the Outer Ones, and thought

of what those tracks in the road might mean.

VIII.

Do not ask me how long my unexpected lapse into slumber lasted, or how much of what

ensued was sheer dream. If I tell you that I awaked at a certain time, and heard and saw

certain things, you will merely answer that I did not wake then; and that everything was a

dream until the moment when I rushed out of the house, stumbled to the shed where I had

seen the old Ford, and seized that ancient vehicle for a mad, aimless race over the haunted

hills which at last landed me—after hours of jolting and winding through forest-threatened

labyrinths—in a village which turned out to be Townshend.

You will also, of course, discount everything else in my report; and declare that all the

pictures, record-sounds, cylinder-and-machine sounds, and kindred evidences were bits of

pure deception practiced on me by the missing Henry Akeley. You will even hint that he

conspired with other eccentrics to carry out a silly and elaborate hoax—that he had the

express shipment removed at Keene, and that he had Noyes make that terrifying wax record.

It is odd, though, that Noyes has not even yet been identified; that he was unknown at any of

the villages near Akeley‘s place, though he must have been frequently in the region. I wish I

had stopped to memorise the licence-number of his car—or perhaps it is better after all that I

did not. For I, despite all you can say, and despite all I sometimes try to say to myself, know

that loathsome outside influences must be lurking there in the half-unknown hills—and that

those influences have spies and emissaries in the world of men. To keep as far as possible

from such influences and such emissaries is all that I ask of life in future.

When my frantic story sent a sheriff‘s posse out to the farmhouse, Akeley was gone without

leaving a trace. His loose dressing-gown, yellow scarf, and foot-bandages lay on the study

floor near his corner easy-chair, and it could not be decided whether any of his other apparel

had vanished with him. The dogs and livestock were indeed missing, and there were some

curious bullet-holes both on the house‘s exterior and on some of the walls within; but beyond

this nothing unusual could be detected. No cylinders or machines, none of the evidences I

had brought in my valise, no queer odour or vibration-sense, no footprints in the road, and

none of the problematical things I glimpsed at the very last.

I stayed a week in Brattleboro after my escape, making inquiries among people of every kind

who had known Akeley; and the results convince me that the matter is no figment of dream or

delusion. Akeley‘s queer purchases of dogs and ammunition and chemicals, and the cutting of

his telephone wires, are matters of record; while all who knew him—including his son in

California—concede that his occasional remarks on strange studies had a certain

consistency. Solid citizens believe he was mad, and unhesitatingly pronounce all reported

evidences mere hoaxes devised with insane cunning and perhaps abetted by eccentric

associates; but the lowlier country folk sustain his statements in every detail. He had shewed

some of these rustics his photographs and black stone, and had played the hideous record for

them; and they all said the footprints and buzzing voice were like those described in ancestral

legends.

They said, too, that suspicious sights and sounds had been noticed increasingly around

Akeley‘s house after he found the black stone, and that the place was now avoided by

everybody except the mail man and other casual, tough-minded people. Dark Mountain and

Round Hill were both notoriously haunted spots, and I could find no one who had ever closely

explored either. Occasional disappearances of natives throughout the district‘s history were

well attested, and these now included the semi-vagabond Walter Brown, whom Akeley‘s

letters had mentioned. I even came upon one farmer who thought he had personally glimpsed

one of the queer bodies at flood-time in the swollen West River, but his tale was too confused

to be really valuable.

When I left Brattleboro I resolved never to go back to Vermont, and I feel quite certain I shall

keep my resolution. Those wild hills are surely the outpost of a frightful cosmic race—as I

doubt all the less since reading that a new ninth planet has been glimpsed beyond Neptune,

just as those influences had said it would be glimpsed. Astronomers, with a hideous

appropriateness they little suspect, have named this thing ―Pluto‖. I feel, beyond question, that

it is nothing less than nighted Yuggoth—and I shiver when I try to figure out the real reason

why its monstrous denizens wish it to be known in this way at this especial time. I vainly try to

assure myself that these daemoniac creatures are not gradually leading up to some new

policy hurtful to the earth and its normal inhabitants.

But I have still to tell of the ending of that terrible night in the farmhouse. As I have said, I did

finally drop into a troubled doze; a doze filled with bits of dream which involved monstrous

landscape-glimpses. Just what awaked me I cannot yet say, but that I did indeed awake at

this given point I feel very certain. My first confused impression was of stealthily creaking

floor-boards in the hall outside my door, and of a clumsy, muffled fumbling at the latch. This,

however, ceased almost at once; so that my really clear impressions began with the voices

heard from the study below. There seemed to be several speakers, and I judged that they

were controversially engaged.

By the time I had listened a few seconds I was broad awake, for the nature of the voices was

such as to make all thought of sleep ridiculous. The tones were curiously varied, and no one

who had listened to that accursed phonograph record could harbour any doubts about the

nature of at least two of them. Hideous though the idea was, I knew that I was under the

same roof with nameless things from abysmal space; for those two voices were unmistakably

the blasphemous buzzings which the Outside Beings used in their communication with men.

The two were individually different—different in pitch, accent, and tempo—but they were both

of the same damnable general kind.

A third voice was indubitably that of a mechanical utterance-machine connected with one of

the detached brains in the cylinders. There was as little doubt about that as about the

buzzings; for the loud, metallic, lifeless voice of the previous evening, with its inflectionless,

expressionless scraping and rattling, and its impersonal precision and deliberation, had been

utterly unforgettable. For a time I did not pause to question whether the intelligence behind

the scraping was the identical one which had formerly talked to me; but shortly afterward I

reflected that any brain would emit vocal sounds of the same quality if linked to the same

mechanical speech-producer; the only possible differences being in language, rhythm, speed,

and pronunciation. To complete the eldritch colloquy there were two actually human voices—

one the crude speech of an unknown and evidently rustic man, and the other the suave

Bostonian tones of my erstwhile guide Noyes.

As I tried to catch the words which the stoutly fashioned floor so bafflingly intercepted, I was

also conscious of a great deal of stirring and scratching and shuffling in the room below; so

that I could not escape the impression that it was full of living beings—many more than the

few whose speech I could single out. The exact nature of this stirring is extremely hard to

describe, for very few good bases of comparison exist. Objects seemed now and then to

move across the room like conscious entities; the sound of their footfalls having something

about it like a loose, hard-surfaced clattering—as of the contact of ill-coördinated surfaces of

horn or hard rubber. It was, to use a more concrete but less accurate comparison, as if people

with loose, splintery wooden shoes were shambling and rattling about on the polished board

floor. On the nature and appearance of those responsible for the sounds, I did not care to

speculate.

Before long I saw that it would be impossible to distinguish any connected discourse. Isolated

words—including the names of Akeley and myself—now and then floated up, especially when

uttered by the mechanical speech-producer; but their true significance was lost for want of

continuous context. Today I refuse to form any definite deductions from them, and even their

frightful effect on me was one of suggestion rather than of revelation. A terrible and abnormal

conclave, I felt certain, was assembled below me; but for what shocking deliberations I could

not tell. It was curious how this unquestioned sense of the malign and the blasphemous

pervaded me despite Akeley‘s assurances of the Outsiders‘ friendliness.

With patient listening I began to distinguish clearly between voices, even though I could not

grasp much of what any of the voices said. I seemed to catch certain typical emotions behind

some of the speakers. One of the buzzing voices, for example, held an unmistakable note of

authority; whilst the mechanical voice, notwithstanding its artificial loudness and regularity,

seemed to be in a position of subordination and pleading. Noyes‘s tones exuded a kind of

conciliatory atmosphere. The others I could make no attempt to interpret. I did not hear the

familiar whisper of Akeley, but well knew that such a sound could never penetrate the solid

flooring of my room.

I will try to set down some of the few disjointed words and other sounds I caught, labelling the

speakers of the words as best I know how. It was from the speech-machine that I first picked

up a few recognisable phrases.

(THE SPEECH-MACHINE)

. . . brought it on myself . . . sent back the letters and the record . . . end on it . . .

taken in . . . seeing and hearing . . . damn you . . . impersonal force, after all . . .

fresh, shiny cylinder . . . great God. . . .‖

(FIRST BUZZING VOICE)

―. . . time we stopped . . . small and human . . . Akeley . . . brain . . . saying . . .‖

(SECOND BUZZING VOICE)

―. . . Nyarlathotep . . . Wilmarth . . . records and letters . . . cheap imposture. . . .‖

(NOYES)

―. . . (an unpronounceable word or name, possibly N’gah-Kthun) . . . harmless . . .

peace . . . couple of weeks . . . theatrical . . . told you that before. . . .‖

(FIRST BUZZING VOICE)

―. . . no reason . . . original plan . . . effects . . . Noyes can watch . . . Round Hill . . .

fresh cylinder . . . Noyes‘s car. . . .‖

(NOYES)

―. . . well . . . all yours . . . down here . . . rest . . . place. . . .‖

(SEVERAL VOICES AT ONCE IN INDISTINGUISHABLE SPEECH)

(MANY FOOTSTEPS, INCLUDING THE PECULIAR LOOSE STIRRING OR

CLATTERING)

(A CURIOUS SORT OF FLAPPING SOUND)

(THE SOUND OF AN AUTOMOBILE STARTING AND RECEDING)

(SILENCE)

That is the substance of what my ears brought me as I lay rigid upon that strange upstairs bed

in the haunted farmhouse among the daemoniac hills—lay there fully dressed, with a revolver

clenched in my right hand and a pocket flashlight gripped in my left. I became, as I have said,

broad awake; but a kind of obscure paralysis nevertheless kept me inert till long after the last

echoes of the sounds had died away. I heard the wooden, deliberate ticking of the ancient

Connecticut clock somewhere far below, and at last made out the irregular snoring of a

sleeper. Akeley must have dozed off after the strange session, and I could well believe that he

needed to do so.

Just what to think or what to do was more than I could decide. After all, what had I heard

beyond things which previous information might have led me to expect? Had I not known that

the nameless Outsiders were now freely admitted to the farmhouse? No doubt Akeley had

been surprised by an unexpected visit from them. Yet something in that fragmentary

discourse had chilled me immeasurably, raised the most grotesque and horrible doubts, and

made me wish fervently that I might wake up and prove everything a dream. I think my

subconscious mind must have caught something which my consciousness has not yet

recognised. But what of Akeley? Was he not my friend, and would he not have protested if

any harm were meant me? The peaceful snoring below seemed to cast ridicule on all my

suddenly intensified fears.

Was it possible that Akeley had been imposed upon and used as a lure to draw me into the

hills with the letters and pictures and phonograph record? Did those beings mean to engulf us

both in a common destruction because we had come to know too much? Again I thought of

the abruptness and unnaturalness of that change in the situation which must have occurred

between Akeley‘s penultimate and final letters. Something, my instinct told me, was terribly

wrong. All was not as it seemed. That acrid coffee which I refused—had there not been an

attempt by some hidden, unknown entity to drug it? I must talk to Akeley at once, and restore

his sense of proportion. They had hypnotised him with their promises of cosmic revelations,

but now he must listen to reason. We must get out of this before it would be too late. If he

lacked the will power to make the break for liberty, I would supply it. Or if I could not persuade

him to go, I could at least go myself. Surely he would let me take his Ford and leave it in a

garage at Brattleboro. I had noticed it in the shed—the door being left unlocked and open now

that peril was deemed past—and I believed there was a good chance of its being ready for

instant use. That momentary dislike of Akeley which I had felt during and after the evening‘s

conversation was all gone now. He was in a position much like my own, and we must stick

together. Knowing his indisposed condition, I hated to wake him at this juncture, but I knew

that I must. I could not stay in this place till morning as matters stood.

At last I felt able to act, and stretched myself vigorously to regain command of my muscles.

Arising with a caution more impulsive than deliberate, I found and donned my hat, took my

valise, and started downstairs with the flashlight‘s aid. In my nervousness I kept the revolver

clutched in my right hand, being able to take care of both valise and flashlight with my left.

Why I exerted these precautions I do not really know, since I was even then on my way to

awaken the only other occupant of the house.

As I half tiptoed down the creaking stairs to the lower hall I could hear the sleeper more

plainly, and noticed that he must be in the room on my left—the living-room I had not entered.

On my right was the gaping blackness of the study in which I had heard the voices. Pushing

open the unlatched door of the living-room I traced a path with the flashlight toward the

source of the snoring, and finally turned the beams on the sleeper‘s face. But in the next

second I hastily turned them away and commenced a cat-like retreat to the hall, my caution

this time springing from reason as well as from instinct. For the sleeper on the couch was not

Akeley at all, but my quondam guide Noyes.

Just what the real situation was, I could not guess; but common sense told me that the safest

thing was to find out as much as possible before arousing anybody. Regaining the hall, I

silently closed and latched the living-room door after me; thereby lessening the chances of

awaking Noyes. I now cautiously entered the dark study, where I expected to find Akeley,

whether asleep or awake, in the great corner chair which was evidently his favourite resting-

place. As I advanced, the beams of my flashlight caught the great centre-table, revealing one

of the hellish cylinders with sight and hearing machines attached, and with a speech-machine

standing close by, ready to be connected at any moment. This, I reflected, must be the

encased brain I had heard talking during the frightful conference; and for a second I had a

perverse impulse to attach the speech-machine and see what it would say.

It must, I thought, be conscious of my presence even now; since the sight and hearing

attachments could not fail to disclose the rays of my flashlight and the faint creaking of the

floor beneath my feet. But in the end I did not dare meddle with the thing. I idly saw that it was

the fresh, shiny cylinder with Akeley‘s name on it, which I had noticed on the shelf earlier in

the evening and which my host had told me not to bother. Looking back at that moment, I can

only regret my timidity and wish that I had boldly caused the apparatus to speak. God knows

what mysteries and horrible doubts and questions of identity it might have cleared up! But

then, it may be merciful that I let it alone.

From the table I turned my flashlight to the corner where I thought Akeley was, but found to

my perplexity that the great easy-chair was empty of any human occupant asleep or awake.

From the seat to the floor there trailed voluminously the familiar old dressing-gown, and near

it on the floor lay the yellow scarf and the huge foot-bandages I had thought so odd. As I

hesitated, striving to conjecture where Akeley might be, and why he had so suddenly

discarded his necessary sick-room garments, I observed that the queer odour and sense of

vibration were no longer in the room. What had been their cause? Curiously it occurred to me

that I had noticed them only in Akeley‘s vicinity. They had been strongest where he sat, and

wholly absent except in the room with him or just outside the doors of that room. I paused,

letting the flashlight wander about the dark study and racking my brain for explanations of the

turn affairs had taken.

Would to heaven I had quietly left the place before allowing that light to rest again on the

vacant chair. As it turned out, I did not leave quietly; but with a muffled shriek which must

have disturbed, though it did not quite awake, the sleeping sentinel across the hall. That

shriek, and Noyes‘s still-unbroken snore, are the last sounds I ever heard in that morbidity-

choked farmhouse beneath the black-wooded crest of a haunted mountain—that focus of

trans-cosmic horror amidst the lonely green hills and curse-muttering brooks of a spectral

rustic land.

It is a wonder that I did not drop flashlight, valise, and revolver in my wild scramble, but

somehow I failed to lose any of these. I actually managed to get out of that room and that

house without making any further noise, to drag myself and my belongings safely into the old

Ford in the shed, and to set that archaic vehicle in motion toward some unknown point of

safety in the black, moonless night. The ride that followed was a piece of delirium out of Poe

or Rimbaud or the drawings of Doré, but finally I reached Townshend. That is all. If my sanity

is still unshaken, I am lucky. Sometimes I fear what the years will bring, especially since that

new planet Pluto has been so curiously discovered.

As I have implied, I let my flashlight return to the vacant easy-chair after its circuit of the room;

then noticing for the first time the presence of certain objects in the seat, made inconspicuous

by the adjacent loose folds of the empty dressing-gown. These are the objects, three in

number, which the investigators did not find when they came later on. As I said at the outset,

there was nothing of actual visual horror about them. The trouble was in what they led one to

infer. Even now I have my moments of half-doubt—moments in which I half accept the

scepticism of those who attribute my whole experience to dream and nerves and delusion.

The three things were damnably clever constructions of their kind, and were furnished with

ingenious metallic clamps to attach them to organic developments of which I dare not form

any conjecture. I hope—devoutly hope—that they were the waxen products of a master artist,

despite what my inmost fears tell me. Great God! That whisperer in darkness with its morbid

odour and vibrations! Sorcerer, emissary, changeling, outsider . . . that hideous repressed

buzzing . . . and all the time in that fresh, shiny cylinder on the shelf . . . poor devil . . .

―prodigious surgical, biological, chemical, and mechanical skill‖. . .

For the things in the chair, perfect to the last, subtle detail of microscopic resemblance—or

identity—were the face and hands of Henry Wentworth Akeley.

Return to Table of Contents

At the Mountains of Madness

(1931)

I am forced into speech because men of science have refused to follow my advice without

knowing why. It is altogether against my will that I tell my reasons for opposing this

contemplated invasion of the antarctic—with its vast fossil-hunt and its wholesale boring and

melting of the ancient ice-cap—and I am the more reluctant because my warning may be in

vain. Doubt of the real facts, as I must reveal them, is inevitable; yet if I suppressed what will

seem extravagant and incredible there would be nothing left. The hitherto withheld

photographs, both ordinary and aërial, will count in my favour; for they are damnably vivid and

graphic. Still, they will be doubted because of the great lengths to which clever fakery can be

carried. The ink drawings, of course, will be jeered at as obvious impostures; notwithstanding

a strangeness of technique which art experts ought to remark and puzzle over.

In the end I must rely on the judgment and standing of the few scientific leaders who have, on

the one hand, sufficient independence of thought to weigh my data on its own hideously

convincing merits or in the light of certain primordial and highly baffling myth-cycles; and on

the other hand, sufficient influence to deter the exploring world in general from any rash and

overambitious programme in the region of those mountains of madness. It is an unfortunate

fact that relatively obscure men like myself and my associates, connected only with a small

university, have little chance of making an impression where matters of a wildly bizarre or

highly controversial nature are concerned.

It is further against us that we are not, in the strictest sense, specialists in the fields which

came primarily to be concerned. As a geologist my object in leading the Miskatonic University

Expedition was wholly that of securing deep-level specimens of rock and soil from various

parts of the antarctic continent, aided by the remarkable drill devised by Prof. Frank H.

Pabodie of our engineering department. I had no wish to be a pioneer in any other field than

this; but I did hope that the use of this new mechanical appliance at different points along

previously explored paths would bring to light materials of a sort hitherto unreached by the

ordinary methods of collection. Pabodie‘s drilling apparatus, as the public already knows from

our reports, was unique and radical in its lightness, portability, and capacity to combine the

ordinary artesian drill principle with the principle of the small circular rock drill in such a way

as to cope quickly with strata of varying hardness. Steel head, jointed rods, gasoline motor,

collapsible wooden derrick, dynamiting paraphernalia, cording, rubbish-removal auger, and

sectional piping for bores five inches wide and up to 1000 feet deep all formed, with needed

accessories, no greater load than three seven-dog sledges could carry; this being made

possible by the clever aluminum alloy of which most of the metal objects were fashioned. Four

large Dornier aëroplanes, designed especially for the tremendous altitude flying necessary on

the antarctic plateau and with added fuel-warming and quick-starting devices worked out by

Pabodie, could transport our entire expedition from a base at the edge of the great ice barrier

to various suitable inland points, and from these points a sufficient quota of dogs would serve

us.

We planned to cover as great an area as one antarctic season—or longer, if absolutely

necessary—would permit, operating mostly in the mountain-ranges and on the plateau south

of Ross Sea; regions explored in varying degree by Shackleton, Amundsen, Scott, and Byrd.

With frequent changes of camp, made by aëroplane and involving distances great enough to

be of geological significance, we expected to unearth a quite unprecedented amount of

material; especially in the pre-Cambrian strata of which so narrow a range of antarctic

specimens had previously been secured. We wished also to obtain as great as possible a

variety of the upper fossiliferous rocks, since the primal life-history of this bleak realm of ice

and death is of the highest importance to our knowledge of the earth‘s past. That the antarctic

continent was once temperate and even tropical, with a teeming vegetable and animal life of

which the lichens, marine fauna, arachnida, and penguins of the northern edge are the only

survivals, is a matter of common information; and we hoped to expand that information in

variety, accuracy, and detail. When a simple boring revealed fossiliferous signs, we would

enlarge the aperture by blasting in order to get specimens of suitable size and condition.

Our borings, of varying depth according to the promise held out by the upper soil or rock,

were to be confined to exposed or nearly exposed land surfaces—these inevitably being

slopes and ridges because of the mile or two-mile thickness of solid ice overlying the lower

levels. We could not afford to waste drilling depth on any considerable amount of mere

glaciation, though Pabodie had worked out a plan for sinking copper electrodes in thick

clusters of borings and melting off limited areas of ice with current from a gasoline-driven

dynamo. It is this plan—which we could not put into effect except experimentally on an

expedition such as ours—that the coming Starkweather-Moore Expedition proposes to follow

despite the warnings I have issued since our return from the antarctic.

The public knows of the Miskatonic Expedition through our frequent wireless reports to the

Arkham Advertiser and Associated Press, and through the later articles of Pabodie and

myself. We consisted of four men from the University—Pabodie, Lake of the biology

department, Atwood of the physics department (also a meteorologist), and I representing

geology and having nominal command—besides sixteen assistants; seven graduate students

from Miskatonic and nine skilled mechanics. Of these sixteen, twelve were qualified

aëroplane pilots, all but two of whom were competent wireless operators. Eight of them

understood navigation with compass and sextant, as did Pabodie, Atwood, and I. In addition,

of course, our two ships—wooden ex-whalers, reinforced for ice conditions and having

auxiliary steam—were fully manned. The Nathaniel Derby Pickman Foundation, aided by a

few special contributions, financed the expedition; hence our preparations were extremely

thorough despite the absence of great publicity. The dogs, sledges, machines, camp

materials, and unassembled parts of our five planes were delivered in Boston, and there our

ships were loaded. We were marvellously well-equipped for our specific purposes, and in all

matters pertaining to supplies, regimen, transportation, and camp construction we profited by

the excellent example of our many recent and exceptionally brilliant predecessors. It was the

unusual number and fame of these predecessors which made our own expedition—ample

though it was—so little noticed by the world at large.

As the newspapers told, we sailed from Boston Harbour on September 2, 1930; taking a

leisurely course down the coast and through the Panama Canal, and stopping at Samoa and

Hobart, Tasmania, at which latter place we took on final supplies. None of our exploring party

had ever been in the polar regions before, hence we all relied greatly on our ship captains—J.

B. Douglas, commanding the brig Arkham, and serving as commander of the sea party, and

Georg Thorfinnssen, commanding the barque Miskatonic—both veteran whalers in antarctic

waters. As we left the inhabited world behind the sun sank lower and lower in the north, and

stayed longer and longer above the horizon each day. At about 62° South Latitude we sighted

our first icebergs—table-like objects with vertical sides—and just before reaching the Antarctic

Circle, which we crossed on October 20 with appropriately quaint ceremonies, we were

considerably troubled with field ice. The falling temperature bothered me considerably after

our long voyage through the tropics, but I tried to brace up for the worse rigours to come. On

many occasions the curious atmospheric effects enchanted me vastly; these including a

strikingly vivid mirage—the first I had ever seen—in which distant bergs became the

battlements of unimaginable cosmic castles.

Pushing through the ice, which was fortunately neither extensive nor thickly packed, we

regained open water at South Latitude 67°, East Longitude 175°. On the morning of October

26 a strong ―land blink‖ appeared on the south, and before noon we all felt a thrill of

excitement at beholding a vast, lofty, and snow-clad mountain chain which opened out and

covered the whole vista ahead. At last we had encountered an outpost of the great unknown

continent and its cryptic world of frozen death. These peaks were obviously the Admiralty

Range discovered by Ross, and it would now be our task to round Cape Adare and sail down

the east coast of Victoria Land to our contemplated base on the shore of McMurdo Sound at

the foot of the volcano Erebus in South Latitude 77° 9'.

The last lap of the voyage was vivid and fancy-stirring, great barren peaks of mystery looming

up constantly against the west as the low northern sun of noon or the still lower horizon-

grazing southern sun of midnight poured its hazy reddish rays over the white snow, bluish ice

and water lanes, and black bits of exposed granite slope. Through the desolate summits

swept raging intermittent gusts of the terrible antarctic wind; whose cadences sometimes held

vague suggestions of a wild and half-sentient musical piping, with notes extending over a

wide range, and which for some subconscious mnemonic reason seemed to me disquieting

and even dimly terrible. Something about the scene reminded me of the strange and

disturbing Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich, and of the still stranger and more disturbing

descriptions of the evilly fabled plateau of Leng which occur in the dreaded Necronomicon of

the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. I was rather sorry, later on, that I had ever looked into that

monstrous book at the college library.

On the seventh of November, sight of the westward range having been temporarily lost, we

passed Franklin Island; and the next day descried the cones of Mts. Erebus and Terror on

Ross Island ahead, with the long line of the Parry Mountains beyond. There now stretched off

to the east the low, white line of the great ice barrier; rising perpendicularly to a height of 200

feet like the rocky cliffs of Quebec, and marking the end of southward navigation. In the

afternoon we entered McMurdo Sound and stood off the coast in the lee of smoking Mt.

Erebus. The scoriac peak towered up some 12,700 feet against the eastern sky, like a

Japanese print of the sacred Fujiyama; while beyond it rose the white, ghost-like height of Mt.

Terror, 10,900 feet in altitude, and now extinct as a volcano. Puffs of smoke from Erebus

came intermittently, and one of the graduate assistants—a brilliant young fellow named

Danforth—pointed out what looked like lava on the snowy slope; remarking that this

mountain, discovered in 1840, had undoubtedly been the source of Poe‘s image when he

wrote seven years later of

—the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

In the ultimate climes of the pole—

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

In the realms of the boreal pole.‖

Danforth was a great reader of bizarre material, and had talked a good deal of Poe. I was

interested myself because of the antarctic scene of Poe‘s only long story—the disturbing and

enigmatical Arthur Gordon Pym. On the barren shore, and on the lofty ice barrier in the

background, myriads of grotesque penguins squawked and flapped their fins; while many fat

seals were visible on the water, swimming or sprawling across large cakes of slowly drifting

ice.

Using small boats, we effected a difficult landing on Ross Island shortly after midnight on the

morning of the 9th, carrying a line of cable from each of the ships and preparing to unload

supplies by means of a breeches-buoy arrangement. Our sensations on first treading

antarctic soil were poignant and complex, even though at this particular point the Scott and

Shackleton expeditions had preceded us. Our camp on the frozen shore below the volcano‘s

slope was only a provisional one; headquarters being kept aboard the Arkham. We landed all

our drilling apparatus, dogs, sledges, tents, provisions, gasoline tanks, experimental ice-

melting outfit, cameras both ordinary and aërial, aëroplane parts, and other accessories,

including three small portable wireless outfits (besides those in the planes) capable of

communicating with the Arkham’s large outfit from any part of the antarctic continent that we

would be likely to visit. The ship‘s outfit, communicating with the outside world, was to convey

press reports to the Arkham Advertiser’s powerful wireless station on Kingsport Head, Mass.

We hoped to complete our work during a single antarctic summer; but if this proved

impossible we would winter on the Arkham, sending the Miskatonic north before the freezing

of the ice for another summer‘s supplies.

I need not repeat what the newspapers have already published about our early work: of our

ascent of Mt. Erebus; our successful mineral borings at several points on Ross Island and the

singular speed with which Pabodie‘s apparatus accomplished them, even through solid rock

layers; our provisional test of the small ice-melting equipment; our perilous ascent of the great

barrier with sledges and supplies; and our final assembling of five huge aëroplanes at the

camp atop the barrier. The health of our land party—twenty men and 55 Alaskan sledge

dogs—was remarkable, though of course we had so far encountered no really destructive

temperatures or windstorms. For the most part, the thermometer varied between zero and 20°

or 25° above, and our experience with New England winters had accustomed us to rigours of

this sort. The barrier camp was semi-permanent, and destined to be a storage cache for

gasoline, provisions, dynamite, and other supplies. Only four of our planes were needed to

carry the actual exploring material, the fifth being left with a pilot and two men from the ships

at the storage cache to form a means of reaching us from the Arkham in case all our

exploring planes were lost. Later, when not using all the other planes for moving apparatus,

we would employ one or two in a shuttle transportation service between this cache and

another permanent base on the great plateau from 600 to 700 miles southward, beyond

Beardmore Glacier. Despite the almost unanimous accounts of appalling winds and tempests

that pour down from the plateau, we determined to dispense with intermediate bases; taking

our chances in the interest of economy and probable efficiency.

Wireless reports have spoken of the breath-taking four-hour non-stop flight of our squadron

on November 21 over the lofty shelf ice, with vast peaks rising on the west, and the

unfathomed silences echoing to the sound of our engines. Wind troubled us only moderately,

and our radio compasses helped us through the one opaque fog we encountered. When the

vast rise loomed ahead, between Latitudes 83° and 84°, we knew we had reached

Beardmore Glacier, the largest valley glacier in the world, and that the frozen sea was now

giving place to a frowning and mountainous coastline. At last we were truly entering the white,

aeon-dead world of the ultimate south, and even as we realised it we saw the peak of Mt.

Nansen in the eastern distance, towering up to its height of almost 15,000 feet.

The successful establishment of the southern base above the glacier in Latitude 86° 7', East

Longitude 174° 23', and the phenomenally rapid and effective borings and blastings made at

various points reached by our sledge trips and short aëroplane flights, are matters of history;

as is the arduous and triumphant ascent of Mt. Nansen by Pabodie and two of the graduate

students—Gedney and Carroll—on December 13–15. We were some 8500 feet above sea-

level, and when experimental drillings revealed solid ground only twelve feet down through

the snow and ice at certain points, we made considerable use of the small melting apparatus

and sunk bores and performed dynamiting at many places where no previous explorer had

ever thought of securing mineral specimens. The pre-Cambrian granites and beacon

sandstones thus obtained confirmed our belief that this plateau was homogeneous with the

great bulk of the continent to the west, but somewhat different from the parts lying eastward

below South America—which we then thought to form a separate and smaller continent

divided from the larger one by a frozen junction of Ross and Weddell Seas, though Byrd has

since disproved the hypothesis.

In certain of the sandstones, dynamited and chiselled after boring revealed their nature, we

found some highly interesting fossil markings and fragments—notably ferns, seaweeds,

trilobites, crinoids, and such molluscs as lingulae and gasteropods—all of which seemed of

real significance in connexion with the region‘s primordial history. There was also a queer

triangular, striated marking about a foot in greatest diameter which Lake pieced together from

three fragments of slate brought up from a deep-blasted aperture. These fragments came

from a point to the westward, near the Queen Alexandra Range; and Lake, as a biologist,

seemed to find their curious marking unusually puzzling and provocative, though to my

geological eye it looked not unlike some of the ripple effects reasonably common in the

sedimentary rocks. Since slate is no more than a metamorphic formation into which a

sedimentary stratum is pressed, and since the pressure itself produces odd distorting effects

on any markings which may exist, I saw no reason for extreme wonder over the striated

depression.

On January 6, 1931, Lake, Pabodie, Danforth, all six of the students, four mechanics, and I

flew directly over the south pole in two of the great planes, being forced down once by a

sudden high wind which fortunately did not develop into a typical storm. This was, as the

papers have stated, one of several observation flights; during others of which we tried to

discern new topographical features in areas unreached by previous explorers. Our early

flights were disappointing in this latter respect; though they afforded us some magnificent

examples of the richly fantastic and deceptive mirages of the polar regions, of which our sea

voyage had given us some brief foretastes. Distant mountains floated in the sky as enchanted

cities, and often the whole white world would dissolve into a gold, silver, and scarlet land of

Dunsanian dreams and adventurous expectancy under the magic of the low midnight sun. On

cloudy days we had considerable trouble in flying, owing to the tendency of snowy earth and

sky to merge into one mystical opalescent void with no visible horizon to mark the junction of

the two.

At length we resolved to carry out our original plan of flying 500 miles eastward with all four

exploring planes and establishing a fresh sub-base at a point which would probably be on the

smaller continental division, as we mistakenly conceived it. Geological specimens obtained

there would be desirable for purposes of comparison. Our health so far had remained

excellent; lime-juice well offsetting the steady diet of tinned and salted food, and temperatures

generally above zero enabling us to do without our thickest furs. It was now midsummer, and

with haste and care we might be able to conclude work by March and avoid a tedious

wintering through the long antarctic night. Several savage windstorms had burst upon us from

the west, but we had escaped damage through the skill of Atwood in devising rudimentary

aëroplane shelters and windbreaks of heavy snow blocks, and reinforcing the principal camp

buildings with snow. Our good luck and efficiency had indeed been almost uncanny.

The outside world knew, of course, of our programme, and was told also of Lake‘s strange

and dogged insistence on a westward—or rather, northwestward—prospecting trip before our

radical shift to the new base. It seems he had pondered a great deal, and with alarmingly

radical daring, over that triangular striated marking in the slate; reading into it certain

contradictions in Nature and geological period which whetted his curiosity to the utmost, and

made him avid to sink more borings and blastings in the west-stretching formation to which

the exhumed fragments evidently belonged. He was strangely convinced that the marking

was the print of some bulky, unknown, and radically unclassifiable organism of considerably

advanced evolution, notwithstanding that the rock which bore it was of so vastly ancient a

date—Cambrian if not actually pre-Cambrian—as to preclude the probable existence not only

of all highly evolved life, but of any life at all above the unicellular or at most the trilobite stage.

These fragments, with their odd marking, must have been 500 million to a thousand million

years old.

II.

Popular imagination, I judge, responded actively to our wireless bulletins of Lake‘s start

northwestward into regions never trodden by human foot or penetrated by human

imagination; though we did not mention his wild hopes of revolutionising the entire sciences of

biology and geology. His preliminary sledging and boring journey of January 11–18 with

Pabodie and five others—marred by the loss of two dogs in an upset when crossing one of

the great pressure-ridges in the ice—had brought up more and more of the Archaean slate;

and even I was interested by the singular profusion of evident fossil markings in that

unbelievably ancient stratum. These markings, however, were of very primitive life-forms

involving no great paradox except that any life-forms should occur in rock as definitely pre-

Cambrian as this seemed to be; hence I still failed to see the good sense of Lake‘s demand

for an interlude in our time-saving programme—an interlude requiring the use of all four

planes, many men, and the whole of the expedition‘s mechanical apparatus. I did not, in the

end, veto the plan; though I decided not to accompany the northwestward party despite

Lake‘s plea for my geological advice. While they were gone, I would remain at the base with

Pabodie and five men and work out final plans for the eastward shift. In preparation for this

transfer one of the planes had begun to move up a good gasoline supply from McMurdo

Sound; but this could wait temporarily. I kept with me one sledge and nine dogs, since it is

unwise to be at any time without possible transportation in an utterly tenantless world of aeon-

long death.

Lake‘s sub-expedition into the unknown, as everyone will recall, sent out its own reports from

the short-wave transmitters on the planes; these being simultaneously picked up by our

apparatus at the southern base and by the Arkham at McMurdo Sound, whence they were

relayed to the outside world on wave-lengths up to fifty metres. The start was made January

22 at 4 A.M.; and the first wireless message we received came only two hours later, when

Lake spoke of descending and starting a small-scale ice-melting and bore at a point some

300 miles away from us. Six hours after that a second and very excited message told of the

frantic, beaver-like work whereby a shallow shaft had been sunk and blasted; culminating in

the discovery of slate fragments with several markings approximately like the one which had

caused the original puzzlement.

Three hours later a brief bulletin announced the resumption of the flight in the teeth of a raw

and piercing gale; and when I despatched a message of protest against further hazards, Lake

replied curtly that his new specimens made any hazard worth taking. I saw that his excitement

had reached the point of mutiny, and that I could do nothing to check this headlong risk of the

whole expedition‘s success; but it was appalling to think of his plunging deeper and deeper

into that treacherous and sinister white immensity of tempests and unfathomed mysteries

which stretched off for some 1500 miles to the half-known, half-suspected coast-line of Queen

Mary and Knox Lands.

Then, in about an hour and a half more, came that doubly excited message from Lake‘s

moving plane which almost reversed my sentiments and made me wish I had accompanied

the party.

―10:05 P.M. On the wing. After snowstorm, have spied mountain-range ahead

higher than any hitherto seen. May equal Himalayas allowing for height of plateau.

Probable Latitude 76° 15', Longitude 113° 10' E. Reaches far as can see to right

and left. Suspicion of two smoking cones. All peaks black and bare of snow. Gale

blowing off them impedes navigation.‖

After that Pabodie, the men, and I hung breathlessly over the receiver. Thought of this titanic

mountain rampart 700 miles away inflamed our deepest sense of adventure; and we rejoiced

that our expedition, if not ourselves personally, had been its discoverers. In half an hour Lake

called us again.

―Moulton‘s plane forced down on plateau in foothills, but nobody hurt and perhaps

can repair. Shall transfer essentials to other three for return or further moves if

necessary, but no more heavy plane travel needed just now. Mountains surpass

anything in imagination. Am going up scouting in Carroll‘s plane, with all weight out.

You can‘t imagine anything like this. Highest peaks must go over 35,000 feet.

Everest out of the running. Atwood to work out height with theodolite while Carroll

and I go up. Probably wrong about cones, for formations look stratified. Possibly

pre-Cambrian slate with other strata mixed in. Queer skyline effects—regular

sections of cubes clinging to highest peaks. Whole thing marvellous in red-gold

light of low sun. Like land of mystery in a dream or gateway to forbidden world of

untrodden wonder. Wish you were here to study.‖

Though it was technically sleeping-time, not one of us listeners thought for a moment of

retiring. It must have been a good deal the same at McMurdo Sound, where the supply cache

and the Arkham were also getting the messages; for Capt. Douglas gave out a call

congratulating everybody on the important find, and Sherman, the cache operator, seconded

his sentiments. We were sorry, of course, about the damaged aëroplane; but hoped it could

be easily mended. Then, at 11 P.M., came another call from Lake.

―Up with Carroll over highest foothills. Don‘t dare try really tall peaks in present

weather, but shall later. Frightful work climbing, and hard going at this altitude, but

worth it. Great range fairly solid, hence can‘t get any glimpses beyond. Main

summits exceed Himalayas, and very queer. Range looks like pre-Cambrian slate,

with plain signs of many other upheaved strata. Was wrong about volcanism. Goes

farther in either direction than we can see. Swept clear of snow above about

21,000 feet. Odd formations on slopes of highest mountains. Great low square

blocks with exactly vertical sides, and rectangular lines of low vertical ramparts, like

the old Asian castles clinging to steep mountains in Roerich‘s paintings. Impressive

from distance. Flew close to some, and Carroll thought they were formed of smaller

separate pieces, but that is probably weathering. Most edges crumbled and

rounded off as if exposed to storms and climate changes for millions of years.

Parts, especially upper parts, seem to be of lighter-coloured rock than any visible

strata on slopes proper, hence an evidently crystalline origin. Close flying shews

many cave-mouths, some unusually regular in outline, square or semicircular. You

must come and investigate. Think I saw rampart squarely on top of one peak.

Height seems about 30,000 to 35,000 feet. Am up 21,500 myself, in devilish

gnawing cold. Wind whistles and pipes through passes and in and out of caves, but

no flying danger so far.‖

From then on for another half-hour Lake kept up a running fire of comment, and expressed

his intention of climbing some of the peaks on foot. I replied that I would join him as soon as

he could send a plane, and that Pabodie and I would work out the best gasoline plan—just

where and how to concentrate our supply in view of the expedition‘s altered character.

Obviously, Lake‘s boring operations, as well as his aëroplane activities, would need a great

deal delivered for the new base which he was to establish at the foot of the mountains; and it

was possible that the eastward flight might not be made after all this season. In connexion

with this business I called Capt. Douglas and asked him to get as much as possible out of the

ships and up the barrier with the single dog-team we had left there. A direct route across the

unknown region between Lake and McMurdo Sound was what we really ought to establish.

Lake called me later to say that he had decided to let the camp stay where Moulton‘s plane

had been forced down, and where repairs had already progressed somewhat. The ice-sheet

was very thin, with dark ground here and there visible, and he would sink some borings and

blasts at that very point before making any sledge trips or climbing expeditions. He spoke of

the ineffable majesty of the whole scene, and the queer state of his sensations at being in the

lee of vast silent pinnacles whose ranks shot up like a wall reaching the sky at the world‘s rim.

Atwood‘s theodolite observations had placed the height of the five tallest peaks at from

30,000 to 34,000 feet. The windswept nature of the terrain clearly disturbed Lake, for it

argued the occasional existence of prodigious gales violent beyond anything we had so far

encountered. His camp lay a little more than five miles from where the higher foothills abruptly

rose. I could almost trace a note of subconscious alarm in his words—flashed across a glacial

void of 700 miles—as he urged that we all hasten with the matter and get the strange new

region disposed of as soon as possible. He was about to rest now, after a continuous day‘s

work of almost unparalleled speed, strenuousness, and results.

In the morning I had a three-cornered wireless talk with Lake and Capt. Douglas at their

widely separated bases; and it was agreed that one of Lake‘s planes would come to my base

for Pabodie, the five men, and myself, as well as for all the fuel it could carry. The rest of the

fuel question, depending on our decision about an easterly trip, could wait for a few days;

since Lake had enough for immediate camp heat and borings. Eventually the old southern

base ought to be restocked; but if we postponed the easterly trip we would not use it till the

next summer, and meanwhile Lake must send a plane to explore a direct route between his

new mountains and McMurdo Sound.

Pabodie and I prepared to close our base for a short or long period, as the case might be. If

we wintered in the antarctic we would probably fly straight from Lake‘s base to the Arkham

without returning to this spot. Some of our conical tents had already been reinforced by blocks

of hard snow, and now we decided to complete the job of making a permanent Esquimau

village. Owing to a very liberal tent supply, Lake had with him all that his base would need

even after our arrival. I wirelessed that Pabodie and I would be ready for the northwestward

move after one day‘s work and one night‘s rest.

Our labours, however, were not very steady after 4 P.M.; for about that time Lake began

sending in the most extraordinary and excited messages. His working day had started

unpropitiously; since an aëroplane survey of the nearly exposed rock surfaces shewed an

entire absence of those Archaean and primordial strata for which he was looking, and which

formed so great a part of the colossal peaks that loomed up at a tantalising distance from the

camp. Most of the rocks glimpsed were apparently Jurassic and Comanchian sandstones and

Permian and Triassic schists, with now and then a glossy black outcropping suggesting a

hard and slaty coal. This rather discouraged Lake, whose plans all hinged on unearthing

specimens more than 500 million years older. It was clear to him that in order to recover the

Archaean slate vein in which he had found the odd markings, he would have to make a long

sledge trip from these foothills to the steep slopes of the gigantic mountains themselves.

He had resolved, nevertheless, to do some local boring as part of the expedition‘s general

programme; hence set up the drill and put five men to work with it while the rest finished

settling the camp and repairing the damaged aëroplane. The softest visible rock—a

sandstone about a quarter of a mile from the camp—had been chosen for the first sampling;

and the drill made excellent progress without much supplementary blasting. It was about

three hours afterward, following the first really heavy blast of the operation, that the shouting

of the drill crew was heard; and that young Gedney—the acting foreman—rushed into the

camp with the startling news.

They had struck a cave. Early in the boring the sandstone had given place to a vein of

Comanchian limestone full of minute fossil cephalopods, corals, echini, and spirifera, and with

occasional suggestions of siliceous sponges and marine vertebrate bones—the latter

probably of teliosts, sharks, and ganoids. This in itself was important enough, as affording the

first vertebrate fossils the expedition had yet secured; but when shortly afterward the drill-

head dropped through the stratum into apparent vacancy, a wholly new and doubly intense

wave of excitement spread among the excavators. A good-sized blast had laid open the

subterrene secret; and now, through a jagged aperture perhaps five feet across and three feet

thick, there yawned before the avid searchers a section of shallow limestone hollowing worn

more than fifty million years ago by the trickling ground waters of a bygone tropic world.

The hollowed layer was not more than seven or eight feet deep, but extended off indefinitely

in all directions and had a fresh, slightly moving air which suggested its membership in an

extensive subterranean system. Its roof and floor were abundantly equipped with large

stalactites and stalagmites, some of which met in columnar form; but important above all else

was the vast deposit of shells and bones which in places nearly choked the passage. Washed

down from unknown jungles of Mesozoic tree-ferns and fungi, and forests of Tertiary cycads,

fan-palms, and primitive angiosperms, this osseous medley contained representatives of

more Cretaceous, Eocene, and other animal species than the greatest palaeontologist could

have counted or classified in a year. Molluscs, crustacean armour, fishes, amphibians,

reptiles, birds, and early mammals—great and small, known and unknown. No wonder

Gedney ran back to the camp shouting, and no wonder everyone else dropped work and

rushed headlong through the biting cold to where the tall derrick marked a new-found

gateway to secrets of inner earth and vanished aeons.

When Lake had satisfied the first keen edge of his curiosity he scribbled a message in his

notebook and had young Moulton run back to the camp to despatch it by wireless. This was

my first word of the discovery, and it told of the identification of early shells, bones of ganoids

and placoderms, remnants of labyrinthodonts and thecodonts, great mososaur skull

fragments, dinosaur vertebrae and armour-plates, pterodactyl teeth and wing-bones,

archaeopteryx debris, Miocene sharks‘ teeth, primitive bird-skulls, and skulls, vertebrae, and

other bones of archaic mammals such as palaeotheres, xiphodons, dinocerases, eohippi,

oreodons, and titanotheres. There was nothing as recent as a mastodon, elephant, true

camel, deer, or bovine animal; hence Lake concluded that the last deposits had occurred

during the Oligocene age, and that the hollowed stratum had lain in its present dried, dead,

and inaccessible state for at least thirty million years.

On the other hand, the prevalence of very early life-forms was singular in the highest degree.

Though the limestone formation was, on the evidence of such typical imbedded fossils as

ventriculites, positively and unmistakably Comanchian and not a particle earlier; the free

fragments in the hollow space included a surprising proportion from organisms hitherto

considered as peculiar to far older periods—even rudimentary fishes, molluscs, and corals as

remote as the Silurian or Ordovician. The inevitable inference was that in this part of the world

there had been a remarkable and unique degree of continuity between the life of over 300

million years ago and that of only thirty million years ago. How far this continuity had extended

beyond the Oligocene age when the cavern was closed, was of course past all speculation. In

any event, the coming of the frightful ice in the Pleistocene some 500,000 years ago—a mere

yesterday as compared with the age of this cavity—must have put an end to any of the primal

forms which had locally managed to outlive their common terms.

Lake was not content to let his first message stand, but had another bulletin written and

despatched across the snow to the camp before Moulton could get back. After that Moulton

stayed at the wireless in one of the planes; transmitting to me—and to the Arkham for relaying

to the outside world—the frequent postscripts which Lake sent him by a succession of

messengers. Those who followed the newspapers will remember the excitement created

among men of science by that afternoon‘s reports—reports which have finally led, after all

these years, to the organisation of that very Starkweather-Moore Expedition which I am so

anxious to dissuade from its purposes. I had better give the messages literally as Lake sent

them, and as our base operator McTighe translated them from his pencil shorthand.

―Fowler makes discovery of highest importance in sandstone and limestone

fragments from blasts. Several distinct triangular striated prints like those in

Archaean slate, proving that source survived from over 600 million years ago to

Comanchian times without more than moderate morphological changes and

decrease in average size. Comanchian prints apparently more primitive or

decadent, if anything, than older ones. Emphasise importance of discovery in

press. Will mean to biology what Einstein has meant to mathematics and physics.

Joins up with my previous work and amplifies conclusions. Appears to indicate, as I

suspected, that earth has seen whole cycle or cycles of organic life before known

one that begins with Archaeozoic cells. Was evolved and specialised not later than

thousand million years ago, when planet was young and recently uninhabitable for

any life-forms or normal protoplasmic structure. Question arises when, where, and

how development took place.‖

————————

―Later. Examining certain skeletal fragments of large land and marine saurians and

primitive mammals, find singular local wounds or injuries to bony structure not

attributable to any known predatory or carnivorous animal of any period. Of two

sorts—straight, penetrant bores, and apparently hacking incisions. One or two

cases of cleanly severed bone. Not many specimens affected. Am sending to camp

for electric torches. Will extend search area underground by hacking away

stalactites.‖

————————

―Still later. Have found peculiar soapstone fragment about six inches across and an

inch and a half thick, wholly unlike any visible local formation. Greenish, but no

evidences to place its period. Has curious smoothness and regularity. Shaped like

five-pointed star with tips broken off, and signs of other cleavage at inward angles

and in centre of surface. Small, smooth depression in centre of unbroken surface.

Arouses much curiosity as to source and weathering. Probably some freak of water

action. Carroll, with magnifier, thinks he can make out additional markings of

geologic significance. Groups of tiny dots in regular patterns. Dogs growing uneasy

as we work, and seem to hate this soapstone. Must see if it has any peculiar odour.

Will report again when Mills gets back with light and we start on underground area.‖

————————

―10:15 P.M. Important discovery. Orrendorf and Watkins, working underground at

9:45 with light, found monstrous barrel-shaped fossil of wholly unknown nature;

probably vegetable unless overgrown specimen of unknown marine radiata. Tissue

evidently preserved by mineral salts. Tough as leather, but astonishing flexibility

retained in places. Marks of broken-off parts at ends and around sides. Six feet end

to end, 3.5 feet central diameter, tapering to 1 foot at each end. Like a barrel with

five bulging ridges in place of staves. Lateral breakages, as of thinnish stalks, are

at equator in middle of these ridges. In furrows between ridges are curious

growths. Combs or wings that fold up and spread out like fans. All greatly damaged

but one, which gives almost seven-foot wing spread. Arrangement reminds one of

certain monsters of primal myth, especially fabled Elder Things in Necronomicon.

These wings seem to be membraneous, stretched on framework of glandular

tubing. Apparent minute orifices in frame tubing at wing tips. Ends of body

shrivelled, giving no clue to interior or to what has been broken off there. Must

dissect when we get back to camp. Can‘t decide whether vegetable or animal.

Many features obviously of almost incredible primitiveness. Have set all hands

cutting stalactites and looking for further specimens. Additional scarred bones

found, but these must wait. Having trouble with dogs. They can‘t endure the new

specimen, and would probably tear it to pieces if we didn‘t keep it at a distance

from them.‖

————————

―11:30 P.M. Attention, Dyer, Pabodie, Douglas. Matter of highest—I might say

transcendent—importance. Arkham must relay to Kingsport Head Station at once.

Strange barrel growth is the Archaean thing that left prints in rocks. Mills,

Boudreau, and Fowler discover cluster of thirteen more at underground point forty

feet from aperture. Mixed with curiously rounded and configured soapstone

fragments smaller than one previously found—star-shaped but no marks of

breakage except at some of the points. Of organic specimens, eight apparently

perfect, with all appendages. Have brought all to surface, leading off dogs to

distance. They cannot stand the things. Give close attention to description and

repeat back for accuracy. Papers must get this right.

―Objects are eight feet long all over. Six-foot five-ridged barrel torso 3.5 feet central

diameter, 1 foot end diameters. Dark grey, flexible, and infinitely tough. Seven-foot

membraneous wings of same colour, found folded, spread out of furrows between

ridges. Wing framework tubular or glandular, of lighter grey, with orifices at wing

tips. Spread wings have serrated edge. Around equator, one at central apex of

each of the five vertical, stave-like ridges, are five systems of light grey flexible

arms or tentacles found tightly folded to torso but expansible to maximum length of

over 3 feet. Like arms of primitive crinoid. Single stalks 3 inches diameter branch

after 6 inches into five sub-stalks, each of which branches after 8 inches into five

small, tapering tentacles or tendrils, giving each stalk a total of 25 tentacles.

―At top of torso blunt bulbous neck of lighter grey with gill-like suggestions holds

yellowish five-pointed starfish-shaped apparent head covered with three-inch wiry

cilia of various prismatic colours. Head thick and puffy, about 2 feet point to point,

with three-inch flexible yellowish tubes projecting from each point. Slit in exact

centre of top probably breathing aperture. At end of each tube is spherical

expansion where yellowish membrane rolls back on handling to reveal glassy, red-

irised globe, evidently an eye. Five slightly longer reddish tubes start from inner

angles of starfish-shaped head and end in sac-like swellings of same colour which

upon pressure open to bell-shaped orifices 2 inches maximum diameter and lined

with sharp white tooth-like projections. Probable mouths. All these tubes, cilia, and

points of starfish-head found folded tightly down; tubes and points clinging to

bulbous neck and torso. Flexibility surprising despite vast toughness.

―At bottom of torso rough but dissimilarly functioning counterparts of head

arrangements exist. Bulbous light-grey pseudo-neck, without gill suggestions,

holds greenish five-pointed starfish-arrangement. Tough, muscular arms 4 feet long

and tapering from 7 inches diameter at base to about 2.5 at point. To each point is

attached small end of a greenish five-veined membraneous triangle 8 inches long

and 6 wide at farther end. This is the paddle, fin, or pseudo-foot which has made

prints in rocks from a thousand million to fifty or sixty million years old. From inner

angles of starfish-arrangement project two-foot reddish tubes tapering from 3

inches diameter at base to 1 at tip. Orifices at tips. All these parts infinitely tough

and leathery, but extremely flexible. Four-foot arms with paddles undoubtedly used

for locomotion of some sort, marine or otherwise. When moved, display

suggestions of exaggerated muscularity. As found, all these projections tightly

folded over pseudo-neck and end of torso, corresponding to projections at other

end.

―Cannot yet assign positively to animal or vegetable kingdom, but odds now favour

animal. Probably represents incredibly advanced evolution of radiata without loss

of certain primitive features. Echinoderm resemblances unmistakable despite local

contradictory evidences. Wing structure puzzles in view of probable marine habitat,

but may have use in water navigation. Symmetry is curiously vegetable-like,

suggesting vegetable‘s essentially up-and-down structure rather than animal‘s fore-

and-aft structure. Fabulously early date of evolution, preceding even simplest

Archaean protozoa hitherto known, baffles all conjecture as to origin.

―Complete specimens have such uncanny resemblance to certain creatures of

primal myth that suggestion of ancient existence outside antarctic becomes

inevitable. Dyer and Pabodie have read Necronomicon and seen Clark Ashton

Smith‘s nightmare paintings based on text, and will understand when I speak of

Elder Things supposed to have created all earth-life as jest or mistake. Students

have always thought conception formed from morbid imaginative treatment of very

ancient tropical radiata. Also like prehistoric folklore things Wilmarth has spoken

of—Cthulhu cult appendages, etc.

―Vast field of study opened. Deposits probably of late Cretaceous or early Eocene

period, judging from associated specimens. Massive stalagmites deposited above

them. Hard work hewing out, but toughness prevented damage. State of

preservation miraculous, evidently owing to limestone action. No more found so far,

but will resume search later. Job now to get fourteen huge specimens to camp

without dogs, which bark furiously and can‘t be trusted near them. With nine men—

three left to guard the dogs—we ought to manage the three sledges fairly well,

though wind is bad. Must establish plane communication with McMurdo Sound and

begin shipping material. But I‘ve got to dissect one of these things before we take

any rest. Wish I had a real laboratory here. Dyer better kick himself for having tried

to stop my westward trip. First the world‘s greatest mountains, and then this. If this

last isn‘t the high spot of the expedition, I don‘t know what is. We‘re made

scientifically. Congrats, Pabodie, on the drill that opened up the cave. Now will

Arkham please repeat description?‖

The sensations of Pabodie and myself at receipt of this report were almost beyond

description, nor were our companions much behind us in enthusiasm. McTighe, who had

hastily translated a few high spots as they came from the droning receiving set, wrote out the

entire message from his shorthand version as soon as Lake‘s operator signed off. All

appreciated the epoch-making significance of the discovery, and I sent Lake congratulations

as soon as the Arkham‘s operator had repeated back the descriptive parts as requested; and

my example was followed by Sherman from his station at the McMurdo Sound supply cache,

as well as by Capt. Douglas of the Arkham. Later, as head of the expedition, I added some

remarks to be relayed through the Arkham to the outside world. Of course, rest was an

absurd thought amidst this excitement; and my only wish was to get to Lake‘s camp as

quickly as I could. It disappointed me when he sent word that a rising mountain gale made

early aërial travel impossible.

But within an hour and a half interest again rose to banish disappointment. Lake was sending

more messages, and told of the completely successful transportation of the fourteen great

specimens to the camp. It had been a hard pull, for the things were surprisingly heavy; but

nine men had accomplished it very neatly. Now some of the party were hurriedly building a

snow corral at a safe distance from the camp, to which the dogs could be brought for greater

convenience in feeding. The specimens were laid out on the hard snow near the camp, save

for one on which Lake was making crude attempts at dissection.

This dissection seemed to be a greater task than had been expected; for despite the heat of a

gasoline stove in the newly raised laboratory tent, the deceptively flexible tissues of the

chosen specimen—a powerful and intact one—lost nothing of their more than leathery

toughness. Lake was puzzled as to how he might make the requisite incisions without

violence destructive enough to upset all the structural niceties he was looking for. He had, it is

true, seven more perfect specimens; but these were too few to use up recklessly unless the

cave might later yield an unlimited supply. Accordingly he removed the specimen and dragged

in one which, though having remnants of the starfish-arrangements at both ends, was badly

crushed and partly disrupted along one of the great torso furrows.

Results, quickly reported over the wireless, were baffling and provocative indeed. Nothing like

delicacy or accuracy was possible with instruments hardly able to cut the anomalous tissue,

but the little that was achieved left us all awed and bewildered. Existing biology would have to

be wholly revised, for this thing was no product of any cell-growth science knows about.

There had been scarcely any mineral replacement, and despite an age of perhaps forty

million years the internal organs were wholly intact. The leathery, undeteriorative, and almost

indestructible quality was an inherent attribute of the thing‘s form of organisation; and

pertained to some palaeogean cycle of invertebrate evolution utterly beyond our powers of

speculation. At first all that Lake found was dry, but as the heated tent produced its thawing

effect, organic moisture of pungent and offensive odour was encountered toward the thing‘s

uninjured side. It was not blood, but a thick, dark-green fluid apparently answering the same

purpose. By the time Lake reached this stage all 37 dogs had been brought to the still

uncompleted corral near the camp; and even at that distance set up a savage barking and

show of restlessness at the acrid, diffusive smell.

Far from helping to place the strange entity, this provisional dissection merely deepened its

mystery. All guesses about its external members had been correct, and on the evidence of

these one could hardly hesitate to call the thing animal; but internal inspection brought up so

many vegetable evidences that Lake was left hopelessly at sea. It had digestion and

circulation, and eliminated waste matter through the reddish tubes of its starfish-shaped base.

Cursorily, one would say that its respiratory apparatus handled oxygen rather than carbon

dioxide; and there were odd evidences of air-storage chambers and methods of shifting

respiration from the external orifice to at least two other fully developed breathing-systems—

gills and pores. Clearly, it was amphibian and probably adapted to long airless hibernation-

periods as well. Vocal organs seemed present in connexion with the main respiratory system,

but they presented anomalies beyond immediate solution. Articulate speech, in the sense of

syllable-utterance, seemed barely conceivable; but musical piping notes covering a wide

range were highly probable. The muscular system was almost preternaturally developed.

The nervous system was so complex and highly developed as to leave Lake aghast. Though

excessively primitive and archaic in some respects, the thing had a set of ganglial centres and

connectives arguing the very extremes of specialised development. Its five-lobed brain was

surprisingly advanced; and there were signs of a sensory equipment, served in part through

the wiry cilia of the head, involving factors alien to any other terrestrial organism. Probably it

had more than five senses, so that its habits could not be predicted from any existing analogy.

It must, Lake thought, have been a creature of keen sensitiveness and delicately

differentiated functions in its primal world; much like the ants and bees of today. It reproduced

like the vegetable cryptogams, especially the pteridophytes; having spore-cases at the tips of

the wings and evidently developing from a thallus or prothallus.

But to give it a name at this stage was mere folly. It looked like a radiate, but was clearly

something more. It was partly vegetable, but had three-fourths of the essentials of animal

structure. That it was marine in origin, its symmetrical contour and certain other attributes

clearly indicated; yet one could not be exact as to the limit of its later adaptations. The wings,

after all, held a persistent suggestion of the aërial. How it could have undergone its

tremendously complex evolution on a new-born earth in time to leave prints in Archaean rocks

was so far beyond conception as to make Lake whimsically recall the primal myths about

Great Old Ones who filtered down from the stars and concocted earth-life as a joke or

mistake; and the wild tales of cosmic hill things from Outside told by a folklorist colleague in

Miskatonic‘s English department.

Naturally, he considered the possibility of the pre-Cambrian prints‘ having been made by a

less evolved ancestor of the present specimens; but quickly rejected this too facile theory

upon considering the advanced structural qualities of the older fossils. If anything, the later

contours shewed decadence rather than higher evolution. The size of the pseudo-feet had

decreased, and the whole morphology seemed coarsened and simplified. Moreover, the

nerves and organs just examined held singular suggestions of retrogression from forms still

more complex. Atrophied and vestigial parts were surprisingly prevalent. Altogether, little could

be said to have been solved; and Lake fell back on mythology for a provisional name—

jocosely dubbing his finds ―The Elder Ones‖.

At about 2:30 A.M., having decided to postpone further work and get a little rest, he covered

the dissected organism with a tarpaulin, emerged from the laboratory tent, and studied the

intact specimens with renewed interest. The ceaseless antarctic sun had begun to limber up

their tissues a trifle, so that the head-points and tubes of two or three shewed signs of

unfolding; but Lake did not believe there was any danger of immediate decomposition in the

almost sub-zero air. He did, however, move all the undissected specimens closer together

and throw a spare tent over them in order to keep off the direct solar rays. That would also

help to keep their possible scent away from the dogs, whose hostile unrest was really

becoming a problem even at their substantial distance and behind the higher and higher snow

walls which an increased quota of the men were hastening to raise around their quarters. He

had to weight down the corners of the tent-cloth with heavy blocks of snow to hold it in place

amidst the rising gale, for the titan mountains seemed about to deliver some gravely severe

blasts. Early apprehensions about sudden antarctic winds were revived, and under Atwood‘s

supervision precautions were taken to bank the tents, new dog-corral, and crude aëroplane

shelters with snow on the mountainward side. These latter shelters, begun with hard snow

blocks during odd moments, were by no means as high as they should have been; and Lake

finally detached all hands from other tasks to work on them.

It was after four when Lake at last prepared to sign off and advised us all to share the rest

period his outfit would take when the shelter walls were a little higher. He held some friendly

chat with Pabodie over the ether, and repeated his praise of the really marvellous drills that

had helped him make his discovery. Atwood also sent greetings and praises. I gave Lake a

warm word of congratulation, owning up that he was right about the western trip; and we all

agreed to get in touch by wireless at ten in the morning. If the gale was then over, Lake would

send a plane for the party at my base. Just before retiring I despatched a final message to the

Arkham with instructions about toning down the day‘s news for the outside world, since the full

details seemed radical enough to rouse a wave of incredulity until further substantiated.

III.

None of us, I imagine, slept very heavily or continuously that morning; for both the excitement

of Lake‘s discovery and the mounting fury of the wind were against such a thing. So savage

was the blast, even where we were, that we could not help wondering how much worse it was

at Lake‘s camp, directly under the vast unknown peaks that bred and delivered it. McTighe

was awake at ten o‘clock and tried to get Lake on the wireless, as agreed, but some electrical

condition in the disturbed air to the westward seemed to prevent communication. We did,

however, get the Arkham, and Douglas told me that he had likewise been vainly trying to

reach Lake. He had not known about the wind, for very little was blowing at McMurdo Sound

despite its persistent rage where we were.

Throughout the day we all listened anxiously and tried to get Lake at intervals, but invariably

without results. About noon a positive frenzy of wind stampeded out of the west, causing us to

fear for the safety of our camp; but it eventually died down, with only a moderate relapse at 2

P.M. After three o‘clock it was very quiet, and we redoubled our efforts to get Lake. Reflecting

that he had four planes, each provided with an excellent short-wave outfit, we could not

imagine any ordinary accident capable of crippling all his wireless equipment at once.

Nevertheless the stony silence continued; and when we thought of the delirious force the wind

must have had in his locality we could not help making the most direful conjectures.

By six o‘clock our fears had become intense and definite, and after a wireless consultation

with Douglas and Thorfinnssen I resolved to take steps toward investigation. The fifth

aëroplane, which we had left at the McMurdo Sound supply cache with Sherman and two

sailors, was in good shape and ready for instant use; and it seemed that the very emergency

for which it had been saved was now upon us. I got Sherman by wireless and ordered him to

join me with the plane and the two sailors at the southern base as quickly as possible; the air

conditions being apparently highly favourable. We then talked over the personnel of the

coming investigation party; and decided that we would include all hands, together with the

sledge and dogs which I had kept with me. Even so great a load would not be too much for

one of the huge planes built to our especial orders for heavy machinery transportation. At

intervals I still tried to reach Lake with the wireless, but all to no purpose.

Sherman, with the sailors Gunnarsson and Larsen, took off at 7:30; and reported a quiet flight

from several points on the wing. They arrived at our base at midnight, and all hands at once

discussed the next move. It was risky business sailing over the antarctic in a single aëroplane

without any line of bases, but no one drew back from what seemed like the plainest necessity.

We turned in at two o‘clock for a brief rest after some preliminary loading of the plane, but

were up again in four hours to finish the loading and packing.

At 7:15 A.M., January 25th, we started flying northwestward under McTighe‘s pilotage with ten

men, seven dogs, a sledge, a fuel and food supply, and other items including the plane‘s

wireless outfit. The atmosphere was clear, fairly quiet, and relatively mild in temperature; and

we anticipated very little trouble in reaching the latitude and longitude designated by Lake as

the site of his camp. Our apprehensions were over what we might find, or fail to find, at the

end of our journey; for silence continued to answer all calls despatched to the camp.

Every incident of that four-and-a-half-hour flight is burned into my recollection because of its

crucial position in my life. It marked my loss, at the age of fifty-four, of all that peace and

balance which the normal mind possesses through its accustomed conception of external

Nature and Nature‘s laws. Thenceforward the ten of us—but the student Danforth and myself

above all others—were to face a hideously amplified world of lurking horrors which nothing

can erase from our emotions, and which we would refrain from sharing with mankind in

general if we could. The newspapers have printed the bulletins we sent from the moving

plane; telling of our non-stop course, our two battles with treacherous upper-air gales, our

glimpse of the broken surface where Lake had sunk his mid-journey shaft three days before,

and our sight of a group of those strange fluffy snow-cylinders noted by Amundsen and Byrd

as rolling in the wind across the endless leagues of frozen plateau. There came a point,

though, when our sensations could not be conveyed in any words the press would

understand; and a later point when we had to adopt an actual rule of strict censorship.

The sailor Larsen was first to spy the jagged line of witch-like cones and pinnacles ahead,

and his shouts sent everyone to the windows of the great cabined plane. Despite our speed,

they were very slow in gaining prominence; hence we knew that they must be infinitely far off,

and visible only because of their abnormal height. Little by little, however, they rose grimly into

the western sky; allowing us to distinguish various bare, bleak, blackish summits, and to catch

the curious sense of phantasy which they inspired as seen in the reddish antarctic light

against the provocative background of iridescent ice-dust clouds. In the whole spectacle there

was a persistent, pervasive hint of stupendous secrecy and potential revelation; as if these

stark, nightmare spires marked the pylons of a frightful gateway into forbidden spheres of

dream, and complex gulfs of remote time, space, and ultra-dimensionality. I could not help

feeling that they were evil things—mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out

over some accursed ultimate abyss. That seething, half-luminous cloud-background held

ineffable suggestions of a vague, ethereal beyondness far more than terrestrially spatial; and

gave appalling reminders of the utter remoteness, separateness, desolation, and aeon-long

death of this untrodden and unfathomed austral world.

It was young Danforth who drew our notice to the curious regularities of the higher mountain

skyline—regularities like clinging fragments of perfect cubes, which Lake had mentioned in

his messages, and which indeed justified his comparison with the dream-like suggestions of

primordial temple-ruins on cloudy Asian mountain-tops so subtly and strangely painted by

Roerich. There was indeed something hauntingly Roerich-like about this whole unearthly

continent of mountainous mystery. I had felt it in October when we first caught sight of Victoria

Land, and I felt it afresh now. I felt, too, another wave of uneasy consciousness of Archaean

mythical resemblances; of how disturbingly this lethal realm corresponded to the evilly famed

plateau of Leng in the primal writings. Mythologists have placed Leng in Central Asia; but the

racial memory of man—or of his predecessors—is long, and it may well be that certain tales

have come down from lands and mountains and temples of horror earlier than Asia and

earlier than any human world we know. A few daring mystics have hinted at a pre-Pleistocene

origin for the fragmentary Pnakotic Manuscripts, and have suggested that the devotees of

Tsathoggua were as alien to mankind as Tsathoggua itself. Leng, wherever in space or time it

might brood, was not a region I would care to be in or near; nor did I relish the proximity of a

world that had ever bred such ambiguous and Archaean monstrosities as those Lake had just

mentioned. At the moment I felt sorry that I had ever read the abhorred Necronomicon, or

talked so much with that unpleasantly erudite folklorist Wilmarth at the university.

This mood undoubtedly served to aggravate my reaction to the bizarre mirage which burst

upon us from the increasingly opalescent zenith as we drew near the mountains and began to

make out the cumulative undulations of the foothills. I had seen dozens of polar mirages

during the preceding weeks, some of them quite as uncanny and fantastically vivid as the

present sample; but this one had a wholly novel and obscure quality of menacing symbolism,

and I shuddered as the seething labyrinth of fabulous walls and towers and minarets loomed

out of the troubled ice-vapours above our heads.

The effect was that of a Cyclopean city of no architecture known to man or to human

imagination, with vast aggregations of night-black masonry embodying monstrous perversions

of geometrical laws and attaining the most grotesque extremes of sinister bizarrerie. There

were truncated cones, sometimes terraced or fluted, surmounted by tall cylindrical shafts here

and there bulbously enlarged and often capped with tiers of thinnish scalloped discs; and

strange, beetling, table-like constructions suggesting piles of multitudinous rectangular slabs

or circular plates or five-pointed stars with each one overlapping the one beneath. There were

composite cones and pyramids either alone or surmounting cylinders or cubes or flatter

truncated cones and pyramids, and occasional needle-like spires in curious clusters of five. All

of these febrile structures seemed knit together by tubular bridges crossing from one to the

other at various dizzy heights, and the implied scale of the whole was terrifying and

oppressive in its sheer giganticism. The general type of mirage was not unlike some of the

wilder forms observed and drawn by the Arctic whaler Scoresby in 1820; but at this time and

place, with those dark, unknown mountain peaks soaring stupendously ahead, that

anomalous elder-world discovery in our minds, and the pall of probable disaster enveloping

the greater part of our expedition, we all seemed to find in it a taint of latent malignity and

infinitely evil portent.

I was glad when the mirage began to break up, though in the process the various nightmare

turrets and cones assumed distorted temporary forms of even vaster hideousness. As the

whole illusion dissolved to churning opalescence we began to look earthward again, and saw

that our journey‘s end was not far off. The unknown mountains ahead rose dizzyingly up like a

fearsome rampart of giants, their curious regularities shewing with startling clearness even

without a field-glass. We were over the lowest foothills now, and could see amidst the snow,

ice, and bare patches of their main plateau a couple of darkish spots which we took to be

Lake‘s camp and boring. The higher foothills shot up between five and six miles away, forming

a range almost distinct from the terrifying line of more than Himalayan peaks beyond them. At

length Ropes—the student who had relieved McTighe at the controls—began to head

downward toward the left-hand dark spot whose size marked it as the camp. As he did so,

McTighe sent out the last uncensored wireless message the world was to receive from our

expedition.

Everyone, of course, has read the brief and unsatisfying bulletins of the rest of our antarctic

sojourn. Some hours after our landing we sent a guarded report of the tragedy we found, and

reluctantly announced the wiping out of the whole Lake party by the frightful wind of the

preceding day, or of the night before that. Eleven known dead, young Gedney missing.

People pardoned our hazy lack of details through realisation of the shock the sad event must

have caused us, and believed us when we explained that the mangling action of the wind had

rendered all eleven bodies unsuitable for transportation outside. Indeed, I flatter myself that

even in the midst of our distress, utter bewilderment, and soul-clutching horror, we scarcely

went beyond the truth in any specific instance. The tremendous significance lies in what we

dared not tell—what I would not tell now but for the need of warning others off from nameless

terrors.

It is a fact that the wind had wrought dreadful havoc. Whether all could have lived through it,

even without the other thing, is gravely open to doubt. The storm, with its fury of madly driven

ice-particles, must have been beyond anything our expedition had encountered before. One

aëroplane shelter—all, it seems, had been left in a far too flimsy and inadequate state—was

nearly pulverised; and the derrick at the distant boring was entirely shaken to pieces. The

exposed metal of the grounded planes and drilling machinery was bruised into a high polish,

and two of the small tents were flattened despite their snow banking. Wooden surfaces left

out in the blast were pitted and denuded of paint, and all signs of tracks in the snow were

completely obliterated. It is also true that we found none of the Archaean biological objects in

a condition to take outside as a whole. We did gather some minerals from a vast tumbled pile,

including several of the greenish soapstone fragments whose odd five-pointed rounding and

faint patterns of grouped dots caused so many doubtful comparisons; and some fossil bones,

among which were the most typical of the curiously injured specimens.

None of the dogs survived, their hurriedly built snow enclosure near the camp being almost

wholly destroyed. The wind may have done that, though the greater breakage on the side

next the camp, which was not the windward one, suggests an outward leap or break of the

frantic beasts themselves. All three sledges were gone, and we have tried to explain that the

wind may have blown them off into the unknown. The drill and ice-melting machinery at the

boring were too badly damaged to warrant salvage, so we used them to choke up that subtly

disturbing gateway to the past which Lake had blasted. We likewise left at the camp the two

most shaken-up of the planes; since our surviving party had only four real pilots—Sherman,

Danforth, McTighe, and Ropes—in all, with Danforth in a poor nervous shape to navigate. We

brought back all the books, scientific equipment, and other incidentals we could find, though

much was rather unaccountably blown away. Spare tents and furs were either missing or

badly out of condition.

It was approximately 4 P.M., after wide plane cruising had forced us to give Gedney up for

lost, that we sent our guarded message to the Arkham for relaying; and I think we did well to

keep it as calm and non-committal as we succeeded in doing. The most we said about

agitation concerned our dogs, whose frantic uneasiness near the biological specimens was to

be expected from poor Lake‘s accounts. We did not mention, I think, their display of the same

uneasiness when sniffing around the queer greenish soapstones and certain other objects in

the disordered region; objects including scientific instruments, aëroplanes, and machinery

both at the camp and at the boring, whose parts had been loosened, moved, or otherwise

tampered with by winds that must have harboured singular curiosity and investigativeness.

About the fourteen biological specimens we were pardonably indefinite. We said that the only

ones we discovered were damaged, but that enough was left of them to prove Lake‘s

description wholly and impressively accurate. It was hard work keeping our personal emotions

out of this matter—and we did not mention numbers or say exactly how we had found those

which we did find. We had by that time agreed not to transmit anything suggesting madness

on the part of Lake‘s men, and it surely looked like madness to find six imperfect

monstrosities carefully buried upright in nine-foot snow graves under five-pointed mounds

punched over with groups of dots in patterns exactly like those on the queer greenish

soapstones dug up from Mesozoic or Tertiary times. The eight perfect specimens mentioned

by Lake seemed to have been completely blown away.

We were careful, too, about the public‘s general peace of mind; hence Danforth and I said

little about that frightful trip over the mountains the next day. It was the fact that only a

radically lightened plane could possibly cross a range of such height which mercifully limited

that scouting tour to the two of us. On our return at 1 A.M. Danforth was close to hysterics, but

kept an admirably stiff upper lip. It took no persuasion to make him promise not to shew our

sketches and the other things we brought away in our pockets, not to say anything more to

the others than what we had agreed to relay outside, and to hide our camera films for private

development later on; so that part of my present story will be as new to Pabodie, McTighe,

Ropes, Sherman, and the rest as it will be to the world in general. Indeed—Danforth is closer

mouthed than I; for he saw—or thinks he saw—one thing he will not tell even me.

As all know, our report included a tale of a hard ascent; a confirmation of Lake‘s opinion that

the great peaks are of Archaean slate and other very primal crumpled strata unchanged since

at least middle Comanchian times; a conventional comment on the regularity of the clinging

cube and rampart formations; a decision that the cave-mouths indicate dissolved calcareous

veins; a conjecture that certain slopes and passes would permit of the scaling and crossing of

the entire range by seasoned mountaineers; and a remark that the mysterious other side

holds a lofty and immense super-plateau as ancient and unchanging as the mountains

themselves—20,000 feet in elevation, with grotesque rock formations protruding through a

thin glacial layer and with low gradual foothills between the general plateau surface and the

sheer precipices of the highest peaks.

This body of data is in every respect true so far as it goes, and it completely satisfied the men

at the camp. We laid our absence of sixteen hours—a longer time than our announced flying,

landing, reconnoitring, and rock-collecting programme called for—to a long mythical spell of

adverse wind conditions; and told truly of our landing on the farther foothills. Fortunately our

tale sounded realistic and prosaic enough not to tempt any of the others into emulating our

flight. Had any tried to do that, I would have used every ounce of my persuasion to stop

them—and I do not know what Danforth would have done. While we were gone, Pabodie,

Sherman, Ropes, McTighe, and Williamson had worked like beavers over Lake‘s two best

planes; fitting them again for use despite the altogether unaccountable juggling of their

operative mechanism.

We decided to load all the planes the next morning and start back for our old base as soon as

possible. Even though indirect, that was the safest way to work toward McMurdo Sound; for a

straight-line flight across the most utterly unknown stretches of the aeon-dead continent

would involve many additional hazards. Further exploration was hardly feasible in view of our

tragic decimation and the ruin of our drilling machinery; and the doubts and horrors around

us—which we did not reveal—made us wish only to escape from this austral world of

desolation and brooding madness as swiftly as we could.

As the public knows, our return to the world was accomplished without further disasters. All

planes reached the old base on the evening of the next day—January 27th—after a swift non-

stop flight; and on the 28th we made McMurdo Sound in two laps, the one pause being very

brief, and occasioned by a faulty rudder in the furious wind over the ice-shelf after we had

cleared the great plateau. In five days more the Arkham and Miskatonic, with all hands and

equipment on board, were shaking clear of the thickening field ice and working up Ross Sea

with the mocking mountains of Victoria Land looming westward against a troubled antarctic

sky and twisting the wind‘s wails into a wide-ranged musical piping which chilled my soul to

the quick. Less than a fortnight later we left the last hint of polar land behind us, and thanked

heaven that we were clear of a haunted, accursed realm where life and death, space and

time, have made black and blasphemous alliances in the unknown epochs since matter first

writhed and swam on the planet‘s scarce-cooled crust.

Since our return we have all constantly worked to discourage antarctic exploration, and have

kept certain doubts and guesses to ourselves with splendid unity and faithfulness. Even

young Danforth, with his nervous breakdown, has not flinched or babbled to his doctors—

indeed, as I have said, there is one thing he thinks he alone saw which he will not tell even

me, though I think it would help his psychological state if he would consent to do so. It might

explain and relieve much, though perhaps the thing was no more than the delusive aftermath

of an earlier shock. That is the impression I gather after those rare irresponsible moments

when he whispers disjointed things to me—things which he repudiates vehemently as soon

as he gets a grip on himself again.

It will be hard work deterring others from the great white south, and some of our efforts may

directly harm our cause by drawing inquiring notice. We might have known from the first that

human curiosity is undying, and that the results we announced would be enough to spur

others ahead on the same age-long pursuit of the unknown. Lake‘s reports of those biological

monstrosities had aroused naturalists and palaeontologists to the highest pitch; though we

were sensible enough not to shew the detached parts we had taken from the actual buried

specimens, or our photographs of those specimens as they were found. We also refrained

from shewing the more puzzling of the scarred bones and greenish soapstones; while

Danforth and I have closely guarded the pictures we took or drew on the super-plateau across

the range, and the crumpled things we smoothed, studied in terror, and brought away in our

pockets. But now that Starkweather-Moore party is organising, and with a thoroughness far

beyond anything our outfit attempted. If not dissuaded, they will get to the innermost nucleus

of the antarctic and melt and bore till they bring up that which may end the world we know. So

I must break through all reticences at last—even about that ultimate nameless thing beyond

the mountains of madness.

IV.

It is only with vast hesitancy and repugnance that I let my mind go back to Lake‘s camp and

what we really found there—and to that other thing beyond the frightful mountain wall. I am

constantly tempted to shirk the details, and to let hints stand for actual facts and ineluctable

deductions. I hope I have said enough already to let me glide briefly over the rest; the rest,

that is, of the horror at the camp. I have told of the wind-ravaged terrain, the damaged

shelters, the disarranged machinery, the varied uneasinesses of our dogs, the missing

sledges and other items, the deaths of men and dogs, the absence of Gedney, and the six

insanely buried biological specimens, strangely sound in texture for all their structural injuries,

from a world forty million years dead. I do not recall whether I mentioned that upon checking

up the canine bodies we found one dog missing. We did not think much about that till later—

indeed, only Danforth and I have thought of it at all.

The principal things I have been keeping back relate to the bodies, and to certain subtle

points which may or may not lend a hideous and incredible kind of rationale to the apparent

chaos. At the time I tried to keep the men‘s minds off those points; for it was so much

simpler—so much more normal—to lay everything to an outbreak of madness on the part of

some of Lake‘s party. From the look of things, that daemon mountain wind must have been

enough to drive any man mad in the midst of this centre of all earthly mystery and desolation.

The crowning abnormality, of course, was the condition of the bodies—men and dogs alike.

They had all been in some terrible kind of conflict, and were torn and mangled in fiendish and

altogether inexplicable ways. Death, so far as we could judge, had in each case come from

strangulation or laceration. The dogs had evidently started the trouble, for the state of their ill-

built corral bore witness to its forcible breakage from within. It had been set some distance

from the camp because of the hatred of the animals for those hellish Archaean organisms, but

the precaution seemed to have been taken in vain. When left alone in that monstrous wind

behind flimsy walls of insufficient height they must have stampeded—whether from the wind

itself, or from some subtle, increasing odour emitted by the nightmare specimens, one could

not say. Those specimens, of course, had been covered with a tent-cloth; yet the low antarctic

sun had beat steadily upon that cloth, and Lake had mentioned that solar heat tended to

make the strangely sound and tough tissues of the things relax and expand. Perhaps the wind

had whipped the cloth from over them, and jostled them about in such a way that their more

pungent olfactory qualities became manifest despite their unbelievable antiquity.

But whatever had happened, it was hideous and revolting enough. Perhaps I had better put

squeamishness aside and tell the worst at last—though with a categorical statement of

opinion, based on the first-hand observations and most rigid deductions of both Danforth and

myself, that the then missing Gedney was in no way responsible for the loathsome horrors we

found. I have said that the bodies were frightfully mangled. Now I must add that some were

incised and subtracted from in the most curious, cold-blooded, and inhuman fashion. It was

the same with dogs and men. All the healthier, fatter bodies, quadrupedal or bipedal, had had

their most solid masses of tissue cut out and removed, as by a careful butcher; and around

them was a strange sprinkling of salt—taken from the ravaged provision-chests on the

planes—which conjured up the most horrible associations. The thing had occurred in one of

the crude aëroplane shelters from which the plane had been dragged out, and subsequent

winds had effaced all tracks which could have supplied any plausible theory. Scattered bits of

clothing, roughly slashed from the human incision-subjects, hinted no clues. It is useless to

bring up the half-impression of certain faint snow-prints in one shielded corner of the ruined

enclosure—because that impression did not concern human prints at all, but was clearly

mixed up with all the talk of fossil prints which poor Lake had been giving throughout the

preceding weeks. One had to be careful of one‘s imagination in the lee of those

overshadowing mountains of madness.

As I have indicated, Gedney and one dog turned out to be missing in the end. When we came

on that terrible shelter we had missed two dogs and two men; but the fairly unharmed

dissecting tent, which we entered after investigating the monstrous graves, had something to

reveal. It was not as Lake had left it, for the covered parts of the primal monstrosity had been

removed from the improvised table. Indeed, we had already realised that one of the six

imperfect and insanely buried things we had found—the one with the trace of a peculiarly

hateful odour—must represent the collected sections of the entity which Lake had tried to

analyse. On and around that laboratory table were strown other things, and it did not take

long for us to guess that those things were the carefully though oddly and inexpertly dissected

parts of one man and one dog. I shall spare the feelings of survivors by omitting mention of

the man‘s identity. Lake‘s anatomical instruments were missing, but there were evidences of

their careful cleansing. The gasoline stove was also gone, though around it we found a

curious litter of matches. We buried the human parts beside the other ten men, and the

canine parts with the other 35 dogs. Concerning the bizarre smudges on the laboratory table,

and on the jumble of roughly handled illustrated books scattered near it, we were much too

bewildered to speculate.

This formed the worst of the camp horror, but other things were equally perplexing. The

disappearance of Gedney, the one dog, the eight uninjured biological specimens, the three

sledges, and certain instruments, illustrated technical and scientific books, writing materials,

electric torches and batteries, food and fuel, heating apparatus, spare tents, fur suits, and the

like, was utterly beyond sane conjecture; as were likewise the spatter-fringed ink-blots on

certain pieces of paper, and the evidences of curious alien fumbling and experimentation

around the planes and all other mechanical devices both at the camp and at the boring. The

dogs seemed to abhor this oddly disordered machinery. Then, too, there was the upsetting of

the larder, the disappearance of certain staples, and the jarringly comical heap of tin cans

pried open in the most unlikely ways and at the most unlikely places. The profusion of

scattered matches, intact, broken, or spent, formed another minor enigma; as did the two or

three tent-cloths and fur suits which we found lying about with peculiar and unorthodox

slashings conceivably due to clumsy efforts at unimaginable adaptations. The maltreatment of

the human and canine bodies, and the crazy burial of the damaged Archaean specimens,

were all of a piece with this apparent disintegrative madness. In view of just such an

eventuality as the present one, we carefully photographed all the main evidences of insane

disorder at the camp; and shall use the prints to buttress our pleas against the departure of

the proposed Starkweather-Moore Expedition.

Our first act after finding the bodies in the shelter was to photograph and open the row of

insane graves with the five-pointed snow mounds. We could not help noticing the

resemblance of these monstrous mounds, with their clusters of grouped dots, to poor Lake‘s

descriptions of the strange greenish soapstones; and when we came on some of the

soapstones themselves in the great mineral pile we found the likeness very close indeed. The

whole general formation, it must be made clear, seemed abominably suggestive of the

starfish-head of the Archaean entities; and we agreed that the suggestion must have worked

potently upon the sensitised minds of Lake‘s overwrought party. Our own first sight of the

actual buried entities formed a horrible moment, and sent the imaginations of Pabodie and

myself back to some of the shocking primal myths we had read and heard. We all agreed that

the mere sight and continued presence of the things must have coöperated with the

oppressive polar solitude and daemon mountain wind in driving Lake‘s party mad.

For madness—centring in Gedney as the only possible surviving agent—was the explanation

spontaneously adopted by everybody so far as spoken utterance was concerned; though I will

not be so naive as to deny that each of us may have harboured wild guesses which sanity

forbade him to formulate completely. Sherman, Pabodie, and McTighe made an exhaustive

aëroplane cruise over all the surrounding territory in the afternoon, sweeping the horizon with

field-glasses in quest of Gedney and of the various missing things; but nothing came to light.

The party reported that the titan barrier range extended endlessly to right and left alike,

without any diminution in height or essential structure. On some of the peaks, though, the

regular cube and rampart formations were bolder and plainer; having doubly fantastic

similitudes to Roerich-painted Asian hill ruins. The distribution of cryptical cave-mouths on the

black snow-denuded summits seemed roughly even as far as the range could be traced.

In spite of all the prevailing horrors we were left with enough sheer scientific zeal and

adventurousness to wonder about the unknown realm beyond those mysterious mountains.

As our guarded messages stated, we rested at midnight after our day of terror and bafflement;

but not without a tentative plan for one or more range-crossing altitude flights in a lightened

plane with aërial camera and geologist‘s outfit, beginning the following morning. It was

decided that Danforth and I try it first, and we awaked at 7 A.M. intending an early trip; though

heavy winds—mentioned in our brief bulletin to the outside world—delayed our start till nearly

nine o‘clock.

I have already repeated the non-committal story we told the men at camp—and relayed

outside—after our return sixteen hours later. It is now my terrible duty to amplify this account

by filling in the merciful blanks with hints of what we really saw in the hidden trans-montane

world—hints of the revelations which have finally driven Danforth to a nervous collapse. I wish

he would add a really frank word about the thing which he thinks he alone saw—even though

it was probably a nervous delusion—and which was perhaps the last straw that put him where

he is; but he is firm against that. All I can do is to repeat his later disjointed whispers about

what set him shrieking as the plane soared back through the wind-tortured mountain pass

after that real and tangible shock which I shared. This will form my last word. If the plain signs

of surviving elder horrors in what I disclose be not enough to keep others from meddling with

the inner antarctic—or at least from prying too deeply beneath the surface of that ultimate

waste of forbidden secrets and unhuman, aeon-cursed desolation—the responsibility for

unnamable and perhaps immensurable evils will not be mine.

Danforth and I, studying the notes made by Pabodie in his afternoon flight and checking up

with a sextant, had calculated that the lowest available pass in the range lay somewhat to the

right of us, within sight of camp, and about 23,000 or 24,000 feet above sea-level. For this

point, then, we first headed in the lightened plane as we embarked on our flight of discovery.

The camp itself, on foothills which sprang from a high continental plateau, was some 12,000

feet in altitude; hence the actual height increase necessary was not so vast as it might seem.

Nevertheless we were acutely conscious of the rarefied air and intense cold as we rose; for

on account of visibility conditions we had to leave the cabin windows open. We were dressed,

of course, in our heaviest furs.

As we drew near the forbidding peaks, dark and sinister above the line of crevasse-riven

snow and interstitial glaciers, we noticed more and more the curiously regular formations

clinging to the slopes; and thought again of the strange Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich.

The ancient and wind-weathered rock strata fully verified all of Lake‘s bulletins, and proved

that these hoary pinnacles had been towering up in exactly the same way since a surprisingly

early time in earth‘s history—perhaps over fifty million years. How much higher they had once

been, it was futile to guess; but everything about this strange region pointed to obscure

atmospheric influences unfavourable to change, and calculated to retard the usual climatic

processes of rock disintegration.

But it was the mountainside tangle of regular cubes, ramparts, and cave-mouths which

fascinated and disturbed us most. I studied them with a field-glass and took aërial

photographs whilst Danforth drove; and at times relieved him at the controls—though my

aviation knowledge was purely an amateur‘s—in order to let him use the binoculars. We could

easily see that much of the material of the things was a lightish Archaean quartzite, unlike any

formation visible over broad areas of the general surface; and that their regularity was

extreme and uncanny to an extent which poor Lake had scarcely hinted.

As he had said, their edges were crumbled and rounded from untold aeons of savage

weathering; but their preternatural solidity and tough material had saved them from

obliteration. Many parts, especially those closest to the slopes, seemed identical in substance

with the surrounding rock surface. The whole arrangement looked like the ruins of Machu

Picchu in the Andes, or the primal foundation-walls of Kish as dug up by the Oxford–Field

Museum Expedition in 1929; and both Danforth and I obtained that occasional impression of

separate Cyclopean blocks which Lake had attributed to his flight-companion Carroll. How to

account for such things in this place was frankly beyond me, and I felt queerly humbled as a

geologist. Igneous formations often have strange regularities—like the famous Giants‘

Causeway in Ireland—but this stupendous range, despite Lake‘s original suspicion of

smoking cones, was above all else non-volcanic in evident structure.

The curious cave-mouths, near which the odd formations seemed most abundant, presented

another albeit a lesser puzzle because of their regularity of outline. They were, as Lake‘s

bulletin had said, often approximately square or semicircular; as if the natural orifices had

been shaped to greater symmetry by some magic hand. Their numerousness and wide

distribution were remarkable, and suggested that the whole region was honeycombed with

tunnels dissolved out of limestone strata. Such glimpses as we secured did not extend far

within the caverns, but we saw that they were apparently clear of stalactites and stalagmites.

Outside, those parts of the mountain slopes adjoining the apertures seemed invariably

smooth and regular; and Danforth thought that the slight cracks and pittings of the weathering

tended toward unusual patterns. Filled as he was with the horrors and strangenesses

discovered at the camp, he hinted that the pittings vaguely resembled those baffling groups of

dots sprinkled over the primeval greenish soapstones, so hideously duplicated on the madly

conceived snow mounds above those six buried monstrosities.

We had risen gradually in flying over the higher foothills and along toward the relatively low

pass we had selected. As we advanced we occasionally looked down at the snow and ice of

the land route, wondering whether we could have attempted the trip with the simpler

equipment of earlier days. Somewhat to our surprise we saw that the terrain was far from

difficult as such things go; and that despite the crevasses and other bad spots it would not

have been likely to deter the sledges of a Scott, a Shackleton, or an Amundsen. Some of the

glaciers appeared to lead up to wind-bared passes with unusual continuity, and upon reaching

our chosen pass we found that its case formed no exception.

Our sensations of tense expectancy as we prepared to round the crest and peer out over an

untrodden world can hardly be described on paper; even though we had no cause to think the

regions beyond the range essentially different from those already seen and traversed. The

touch of evil mystery in these barrier mountains, and in the beckoning sea of opalescent sky

glimpsed betwixt their summits, was a highly subtle and attenuated matter not to be explained

in literal words. Rather was it an affair of vague psychological symbolism and aesthetic

association—a thing mixed up with exotic poetry and paintings, and with archaic myths lurking

in shunned and forbidden volumes. Even the wind‘s burden held a peculiar strain of

conscious malignity; and for a second it seemed that the composite sound included a bizarre

musical whistling or piping over a wide range as the blast swept in and out of the omnipresent

and resonant cave-mouths. There was a cloudy note of reminiscent repulsion in this sound,

as complex and unplaceable as any of the other dark impressions.

We were now, after a slow ascent, at a height of 23,570 feet according to the aneroid; and

had left the region of clinging snow definitely below us. Up here were only dark, bare rock

slopes and the start of rough-ribbed glaciers—but with those provocative cubes, ramparts,

and echoing cave-mouths to add a portent of the unnatural, the fantastic, and the dream-like.

Looking along the line of high peaks, I thought I could see the one mentioned by poor Lake,

with a rampart exactly on top. It seemed to be half-lost in a queer antarctic haze; such a haze,

perhaps, as had been responsible for Lake‘s early notion of volcanism. The pass loomed

directly before us, smooth and windswept between its jagged and malignly frowning pylons.

Beyond it was a sky fretted with swirling vapours and lighted by the low polar sun—the sky of

that mysterious farther realm upon which we felt no human eye had ever gazed.

A few more feet of altitude and we would behold that realm. Danforth and I, unable to speak

except in shouts amidst the howling, piping wind that raced through the pass and added to

the noise of the unmuffled engines, exchanged eloquent glances. And then, having gained

those last few feet, we did indeed stare across the momentous divide and over the

unsampled secrets of an elder and utterly alien earth.

I think that both of us simultaneously cried out in mixed awe, wonder, terror, and disbelief in

our own senses as we finally cleared the pass and saw what lay beyond. Of course we must

have had some natural theory in the back of our heads to steady our faculties for the moment.

Probably we thought of such things as the grotesquely weathered stones of the Garden of the

Gods in Colorado, or the fantastically symmetrical wind-carved rocks of the Arizona desert.

Perhaps we even half thought the sight a mirage like that we had seen the morning before on

first approaching those mountains of madness. We must have had some such normal notions

to fall back upon as our eyes swept that limitless, tempest-scarred plateau and grasped the

almost endless labyrinth of colossal, regular, and geometrically eurhythmic stone masses

which reared their crumbled and pitted crests above a glacial sheet not more than forty or fifty

feet deep at its thickest, and in places obviously thinner.

The effect of the monstrous sight was indescribable, for some fiendish violation of known

natural law seemed certain at the outset. Here, on a hellishly ancient table-land fully 20,000

feet high, and in a climate deadly to habitation since a pre-human age not less than 500,000

years ago, there stretched nearly to the vision‘s limit a tangle of orderly stone which only the

desperation of mental self-defence could possibly attribute to any but a conscious and

artificial cause. We had previously dismissed, so far as serious thought was concerned, any

theory that the cubes and ramparts of the mountainsides were other than natural in origin.

How could they be otherwise, when man himself could scarcely have been differentiated from

the great apes at the time when this region succumbed to the present unbroken reign of

glacial death?

Yet now the sway of reason seemed irrefutably shaken, for this Cyclopean maze of squared,

curved, and angled blocks had features which cut off all comfortable refuge. It was, very

clearly, the blasphemous city of the mirage in stark, objective, and ineluctable reality. That

damnable portent had had a material basis after all—there had been some horizontal stratum

of ice-dust in the upper air, and this shocking stone survival had projected its image across

the mountains according to the simple laws of reflection. Of course the phantom had been

twisted and exaggerated, and had contained things which the real source did not contain; yet

now, as we saw that real source, we thought it even more hideous and menacing than its

distant image.

Only the incredible, unhuman massiveness of these vast stone towers and ramparts had

saved the frightful thing from utter annihilation in the hundreds of thousands—perhaps

millions—of years it had brooded there amidst the blasts of a bleak upland. ―Corona Mundi . .

. Roof of the World . . .‖ All sorts of fantastic phrases sprang to our lips as we looked dizzily

down at the unbelievable spectacle. I thought again of the eldritch primal myths that had so

persistently haunted me since my first sight of this dead antarctic world—of the daemoniac

plateau of Leng, of the Mi-Go, or Abominable Snow-Men of the Himalayas, of the Pnakotic

Manuscripts with their pre-human implications, of the Cthulhu cult, of the Necronomicon, and

of the Hyperborean legends of formless Tsathoggua and the worse than formless star-spawn

associated with that semi-entity.

For boundless miles in every direction the thing stretched off with very little thinning; indeed,

as our eyes followed it to the right and left along the base of the low, gradual foothills which

separated it from the actual mountain rim, we decided that we could see no thinning at all

except for an interruption at the left of the pass through which we had come. We had merely

struck, at random, a limited part of something of incalculable extent. The foothills were more

sparsely sprinkled with grotesque stone structures, linking the terrible city to the already

familiar cubes and ramparts which evidently formed its mountain outposts. These latter, as

well as the queer cave-mouths, were as thick on the inner as on the outer sides of the

mountains.

The nameless stone labyrinth consisted, for the most part, of walls from 10 to 150 feet in ice-

clear height, and of a thickness varying from five to ten feet. It was composed mostly of

prodigious blocks of dark primordial slate, schist, and sandstone—blocks in many cases as

large as 4 × 6 × 8 feet—though in several places it seemed to be carved out of a solid,

uneven bed-rock of pre-Cambrian slate. The buildings were far from equal in size; there being

innumerable honeycomb-arrangements of enormous extent as well as smaller separate

structures. The general shape of these things tended to be conical, pyramidal, or terraced;

though there were many perfect cylinders, perfect cubes, clusters of cubes, and other

rectangular forms, and a peculiar sprinkling of angled edifices whose five-pointed ground plan

roughly suggested modern fortifications. The builders had made constant and expert use of

the principle of the arch, and domes had probably existed in the city‘s heyday.

The whole tangle was monstrously weathered, and the glacial surface from which the towers

projected was strewn with fallen blocks and immemorial debris. Where the glaciation was

transparent we could see the lower parts of the gigantic piles, and noticed the ice-preserved

stone bridges which connected the different towers at varying distances above the ground. On

the exposed walls we could detect the scarred places where other and higher bridges of the

same sort had existed. Closer inspection revealed countless largish windows; some of which

were closed with shutters of a petrified material originally wood, though most gaped open in a

sinister and menacing fashion. Many of the ruins, of course, were roofless, and with uneven

though wind-rounded upper edges; whilst others, of a more sharply conical or pyramidal

model or else protected by higher surrounding structures, preserved intact outlines despite

the omnipresent crumbling and pitting. With the field-glass we could barely make out what

seemed to be sculptural decorations in horizontal bands—decorations including those curious

groups of dots whose presence on the ancient soapstones now assumed a vastly larger

significance.

In many places the buildings were totally ruined and the ice-sheet deeply riven from various

geologic causes. In other places the stonework was worn down to the very level of the

glaciation. One broad swath, extending from the plateau‘s interior to a cleft in the foothills

about a mile to the left of the pass we had traversed, was wholly free from buildings; and

probably represented, we concluded, the course of some great river which in Tertiary times—

millions of years ago—had poured through the city and into some prodigious subterranean

abyss of the great barrier range. Certainly, this was above all a region of caves, gulfs, and

underground secrets beyond human penetration.

Looking back to our sensations, and recalling our dazedness at viewing this monstrous

survival from aeons we had thought pre-human, I can only wonder that we preserved the

semblance of equilibrium which we did. Of course we knew that something—chronology,

scientific theory, or our own consciousness—was woefully awry; yet we kept enough poise to

guide the plane, observe many things quite minutely, and take a careful series of photographs

which may yet serve both us and the world in good stead. In my case, ingrained scientific

habit may have helped; for above all my bewilderment and sense of menace there burned a

dominant curiosity to fathom more of this age-old secret—to know what sort of beings had

built and lived in this incalculably gigantic place, and what relation to the general world of its

time or of other times so unique a concentration of life could have had.

For this place could be no ordinary city. It must have formed the primary nucleus and centre

of some archaic and unbelievable chapter of earth‘s history whose outward ramifications,

recalled only dimly in the most obscure and distorted myths, had vanished utterly amidst the

chaos of terrene convulsions long before any human race we know had shambled out of

apedom. Here sprawled a palaeogean megalopolis compared with which the fabled Atlantis

and Lemuria, Commoriom and Uzuldaroum, and Olathoë in the land of Lomar are recent

things of today—not even of yesterday; a megalopolis ranking with such whispered pre-

human blasphemies as Valusia, R‘lyeh, Ib in the land of Mnar, and the Nameless City of

Arabia Deserta. As we flew above that tangle of stark titan towers my imagination sometimes

escaped all bounds and roved aimlessly in realms of fantastic associations—even weaving

links betwixt this lost world and some of my own wildest dreams concerning the mad horror at

the camp.

The plane‘s fuel-tank, in the interest of greater lightness, had been only partly filled; hence we

now had to exert caution in our explorations. Even so, however, we covered an enormous

extent of ground—or rather, air—after swooping down to a level where the wind became

virtually negligible. There seemed to be no limit to the mountain-range, or to the length of the

frightful stone city which bordered its inner foothills. Fifty miles of flight in each direction

shewed no major change in the labyrinth of rock and masonry that clawed up corpse-like

through the eternal ice. There were, though, some highly absorbing diversifications; such as

the carvings on the canyon where that broad river had once pierced the foothills and

approached its sinking-place in the great range. The headlands at the stream‘s entrance had

been boldly carved into Cyclopean pylons; and something about the ridgy, barrel-shaped

designs stirred up oddly vague, hateful, and confusing semi-remembrances in both Danforth

and me.

We also came upon several star-shaped open spaces, evidently public squares; and noted

various undulations in the terrain. Where a sharp hill rose, it was generally hollowed out into

some sort of rambling stone edifice; but there were at least two exceptions. Of these latter,

one was too badly weathered to disclose what had been on the jutting eminence, while the

other still bore a fantastic conical monument carved out of the solid rock and roughly

resembling such things as the well-known Snake Tomb in the ancient valley of Petra.

Flying inland from the mountains, we discovered that the city was not of infinite width, even

though its length along the foothills seemed endless. After about thirty miles the grotesque

stone buildings began to thin out, and in ten more miles we came to an unbroken waste

virtually without signs of sentient artifice. The course of the river beyond the city seemed

marked by a broad depressed line; while the land assumed a somewhat greater ruggedness,

seeming to slope slightly upward as it receded in the mist-hazed west.

So far we had made no landing, yet to leave the plateau without an attempt at entering some

of the monstrous structures would have been inconceivable. Accordingly we decided to find a

smooth place on the foothills near our navigable pass, there grounding the plane and

preparing to do some exploration on foot. Though these gradual slopes were partly covered

with a scattering of ruins, low flying soon disclosed an ample number of possible landing-

places. Selecting that nearest to the pass, since our next flight would be across the great

range and back to camp, we succeeded about 12:30 P.M. in coming down on a smooth, hard

snowfield wholly devoid of obstacles and well adapted to a swift and favourable takeoff later

on.

It did not seem necessary to protect the plane with a snow banking for so brief a time and in

so comfortable an absence of high winds at this level; hence we merely saw that the landing

skis were safely lodged, and that the vital parts of the mechanism were guarded against the

cold. For our foot journey we discarded the heaviest of our flying furs, and took with us a

small outfit consisting of pocket compass, hand camera, light provisions, voluminous

notebooks and paper, geologist‘s hammer and chisel, specimen-bags, coil of climbing rope,

and powerful electric torches with extra batteries; this equipment having been carried in the

plane on the chance that we might be able to effect a landing, take ground pictures, make

drawings and topographical sketches, and obtain rock specimens from some bare slope,

outcropping, or mountain cave. Fortunately we had a supply of extra paper to tear up, place in

a spare specimen-bag, and use on the ancient principle of hare-and-hounds for marking our

course in any interior mazes we might be able to penetrate. This had been brought in case we

found some cave system with air quiet enough to allow such a rapid and easy method in

place of the usual rock-chipping method of trail-blazing.

Walking cautiously downhill over the crusted snow toward the stupendous stone labyrinth that

loomed against the opalescent west, we felt almost as keen a sense of imminent marvels as

we had felt on approaching the unfathomed mountain pass four hours previously. True, we

had become visually familiar with the incredible secret concealed by the barrier peaks; yet the

prospect of actually entering primordial walls reared by conscious beings perhaps millions of

years ago—before any known race of men could have existed—was none the less awesome

and potentially terrible in its implications of cosmic abnormality. Though the thinness of the air

at this prodigious altitude made exertion somewhat more difficult than usual; both Danforth

and I found ourselves bearing up very well, and felt equal to almost any task which might fall

to our lot. It took only a few steps to bring us to a shapeless ruin worn level with the snow,

while ten or fifteen rods farther on there was a huge roofless rampart still complete in its

gigantic five-pointed outline and rising to an irregular height of ten or eleven feet. For this

latter we headed; and when at last we were able actually to touch its weathered Cyclopean

blocks, we felt that we had established an unprecedented and almost blasphemous link with

forgotten aeons normally closed to our species.

This rampart, shaped like a star and perhaps 300 feet from point to point, was built of Jurassic

sandstone blocks of irregular size, averaging 6 × 8 feet in surface. There was a row of arched

loopholes or windows about four feet wide and five feet high; spaced quite symmetrically

along the points of the star and at its inner angles, and with the bottoms about four feet from

the glaciated surface. Looking through these, we could see that the masonry was fully five

feet thick, that there were no partitions remaining within, and that there were traces of banded

carvings or bas-reliefs on the interior walls; facts we had indeed guessed before, when flying

low over this rampart and others like it. Though lower parts must have originally existed, all

traces of such things were now wholly obscured by the deep layer of ice and snow at this

point.

We crawled through one of the windows and vainly tried to decipher the nearly effaced mural

designs, but did not attempt to disturb the glaciated floor. Our orientation flights had indicated

that many buildings in the city proper were less ice-choked, and that we might perhaps find

wholly clear interiors leading down to the true ground level if we entered those structures still

roofed at the top. Before we left the rampart we photographed it carefully, and studied its

mortarless Cyclopean masonry with complete bewilderment. We wished that Pabodie were

present, for his engineering knowledge might have helped us guess how such titanic blocks

could have been handled in that unbelievably remote age when the city and its outskirts were

built up.

The half-mile walk downhill to the actual city, with the upper wind shrieking vainly and

savagely through the skyward peaks in the background, was something whose smallest

details will always remain engraved on my mind. Only in fantastic nightmares could any

human beings but Danforth and me conceive such optical effects. Between us and the

churning vapours of the west lay that monstrous tangle of dark stone towers; its outré and

incredible forms impressing us afresh at every new angle of vision. It was a mirage in solid

stone, and were it not for the photographs I would still doubt that such a thing could be. The

general type of masonry was identical with that of the rampart we had examined; but the

extravagant shapes which this masonry took in its urban manifestations were past all

description.

Even the pictures illustrate only one or two phases of its infinite bizarrerie, endless variety,

preternatural massiveness, and utterly alien exoticism. There were geometrical forms for

which an Euclid could scarcely find a name—cones of all degrees of irregularity and

truncation; terraces of every sort of provocative disproportion; shafts with odd bulbous

enlargements; broken columns in curious groups; and five-pointed or five-ridged

arrangements of mad grotesqueness. As we drew nearer we could see beneath certain

transparent parts of the ice-sheet, and detect some of the tubular stone bridges that

connected the crazily sprinkled structures at various heights. Of orderly streets there seemed

to be none, the only broad open swath being a mile to the left, where the ancient river had

doubtless flowed through the town into the mountains.

Our field-glasses shewed the external horizontal bands of nearly effaced sculptures and dot-

groups to be very prevalent, and we could half imagine what the city must once have looked

like—even though most of the roofs and tower-tops had necessarily perished. As a whole, it

had been a complex tangle of twisted lanes and alleys; all of them deep canyons, and some

little better than tunnels because of the overhanging masonry or overarching bridges. Now,

outspread below us, it loomed like a dream-phantasy against a westward mist through whose

northern end the low, reddish antarctic sun of early afternoon was struggling to shine; and

when for a moment that sun encountered a denser obstruction and plunged the scene into

temporary shadow, the effect was subtly menacing in a way I can never hope to depict. Even

the faint howling and piping of the unfelt wind in the great mountain passes behind us took on

a wilder note of purposeful malignity. The last stage of our descent to the town was unusually

steep and abrupt, and a rock outcropping at the edge where the grade changed led us to

think that an artificial terrace had once existed there. Under the glaciation, we believed, there

must be a flight of steps or its equivalent.

When at last we plunged into the labyrinthine town itself, clambering over fallen masonry and

shrinking from the oppressive nearness and dwarfing height of omnipresent crumbling and

pitted walls, our sensations again became such that I marvel at the amount of self-control we

retained. Danforth was frankly jumpy, and began making some offensively irrelevant

speculations about the horror at the camp—which I resented all the more because I could not

help sharing certain conclusions forced upon us by many features of this morbid survival from

nightmare antiquity. The speculations worked on his imagination, too; for in one place—where

a debris-littered alley turned a sharp corner—he insisted that he saw faint traces of ground

markings which he did not like; whilst elsewhere he stopped to listen to a subtle imaginary

sound from some undefined point—a muffled musical piping, he said, not unlike that of the

wind in the mountain caves yet somehow disturbingly different. The ceaseless five-

pointedness of the surrounding architecture and of the few distinguishable mural arabesques

had a dimly sinister suggestiveness we could not escape; and gave us a touch of terrible

subconscious certainty concerning the primal entities which had reared and dwelt in this

unhallowed place.

Nevertheless our scientific and adventurous souls were not wholly dead; and we mechanically

carried out our programme of chipping specimens from all the different rock types

represented in the masonry. We wished a rather full set in order to draw better conclusions

regarding the age of the place. Nothing in the great outer walls seemed to date from later than

the Jurassic and Comanchian periods, nor was any piece of stone in the entire place of a

greater recency than the Pliocene age. In stark certainty, we were wandering amidst a death

which had reigned at least 500,000 years, and in all probability even longer.

As we proceeded through this maze of stone-shadowed twilight we stopped at all available

apertures to study interiors and investigate entrance possibilities. Some were above our

reach, whilst others led only into ice-choked ruins as unroofed and barren as the rampart on

the hill. One, though spacious and inviting, opened on a seemingly bottomless abyss without

visible means of descent. Now and then we had a chance to study the petrified wood of a

surviving shutter, and were impressed by the fabulous antiquity implied in the still discernible

grain. These things had come from Mesozoic gymnosperms and conifers—especially

Cretaceous cycads—and from fan-palms and early angiosperms of plainly Tertiary date.

Nothing definitely later than the Pliocene could be discovered. In the placing of these

shutters—whose edges shewed the former presence of queer and long-vanished hinges—

usage seemed to be varied; some being on the outer and some on the inner side of the deep

embrasures. They seemed to have become wedged in place, thus surviving the rusting of

their former and probably metallic fixtures and fastenings.

After a time we came across a row of windows—in the bulges of a colossal five-ridged cone

of undamaged apex—which led into a vast, well-preserved room with stone flooring; but these

were too high in the room to permit of descent without a rope. We had a rope with us, but did

not wish to bother with this twenty-foot drop unless obliged to—especially in this thin plateau

air where great demands were made upon the heart action. This enormous room was

probably a hall or concourse of some sort, and our electric torches shewed bold, distinct, and

potentially startling sculptures arranged round the walls in broad, horizontal bands separated

by equally broad strips of conventional arabesques. We took careful note of this spot,

planning to enter here unless a more easily gained interior were encountered.

Finally, though, we did encounter exactly the opening we wished; an archway about six feet

wide and ten feet high, marking the former end of an aërial bridge which had spanned an

alley about five feet above the present level of glaciation. These archways, of course, were

flush with upper-story floors; and in this case one of the floors still existed. The building thus

accessible was a series of rectangular terraces on our left facing westward. That across the

alley, where the other archway yawned, was a decrepit cylinder with no windows and with a

curious bulge about ten feet above the aperture. It was totally dark inside, and the archway

seemed to open on a well of illimitable emptiness.

Heaped debris made the entrance to the vast left-hand building doubly easy, yet for a moment

we hesitated before taking advantage of the long-wished chance. For though we had

penetrated into this tangle of archaic mystery, it required fresh resolution to carry us actually

inside a complete and surviving building of a fabulous elder world whose nature was

becoming more and more hideously plain to us. In the end, however, we made the plunge;

and scrambled up over the rubble into the gaping embrasure. The floor beyond was of great

slate slabs, and seemed to form the outlet of a long, high corridor with sculptured walls.

Observing the many inner archways which led off from it, and realising the probable

complexity of the nest of apartments within, we decided that we must begin our system of

hare-and-hound trail-blazing. Hitherto our compasses, together with frequent glimpses of the

vast mountain-range between the towers in our rear, had been enough to prevent our losing

our way; but from now on, the artificial substitute would be necessary. Accordingly we

reduced our extra paper to shreds of suitable size, placed these in a bag to be carried by

Danforth, and prepared to use them as economically as safety would allow. This method

would probably gain us immunity from straying, since there did not appear to be any strong

air-currents inside the primordial masonry. If such should develop, or if our paper supply

should give out, we could of course fall back on the more secure though more tedious and

retarding method of rock-chipping.

Just how extensive a territory we had opened up, it was impossible to guess without a trial.

The close and frequent connexion of the different buildings made it likely that we might cross

from one to another on bridges underneath the ice except where impeded by local collapses

and geologic rifts, for very little glaciation seemed to have entered the massive constructions.

Almost all the areas of transparent ice had revealed the submerged windows as tightly

shuttered, as if the town had been left in that uniform state until the glacial sheet came to

crystallise the lower part for all succeeding time. Indeed, one gained a curious impression that

this place had been deliberately closed and deserted in some dim, bygone aeon, rather than

overwhelmed by any sudden calamity or even gradual decay. Had the coming of the ice been

foreseen, and had a nameless population left en masse to seek a less doomed abode? The

precise physiographic conditions attending the formation of the ice-sheet at this point would

have to wait for later solution. It had not, very plainly, been a grinding drive. Perhaps the

pressure of accumulated snows had been responsible; and perhaps some flood from the

river, or from the bursting of some ancient glacial dam in the great range, had helped to

create the special state now observable. Imagination could conceive almost anything in

connexion with this place.

VI.

It would be cumbrous to give a detailed, consecutive account of our wanderings inside that

cavernous, aeon-dead honeycomb of primal masonry; that monstrous lair of elder secrets

which now echoed for the first time, after uncounted epochs, to the tread of human feet. This

is especially true because so much of the horrible drama and revelation came from a mere

study of the omnipresent mural carvings. Our flashlight photographs of those carvings will do

much toward proving the truth of what we are now disclosing, and it is lamentable that we had

not a larger film supply with us. As it was, we made crude notebook sketches of certain salient

features after all our films were used up.

The building which we had entered was one of great size and elaborateness, and gave us an

impressive notion of the architecture of that nameless geologic past. The inner partitions were

less massive than the outer walls, but on the lower levels were excellently preserved.

Labyrinthine complexity, involving curiously irregular differences in floor levels, characterised

the entire arrangement; and we should certainly have been lost at the very outset but for the

trail of torn paper left behind us. We decided to explore the more decrepit upper parts first of

all, hence climbed aloft in the maze for a distance of some 100 feet, to where the topmost tier

of chambers yawned snowily and ruinously open to the polar sky. Ascent was effected over

the steep, transversely ribbed stone ramps or inclined planes which everywhere served in lieu

of stairs. The rooms we encountered were of all imaginable shapes and proportions, ranging

from five-pointed stars to triangles and perfect cubes. It might be safe to say that their general

average was about 30 × 30 feet in floor area, and 20 feet in height; though many larger

apartments existed. After thoroughly examining the upper regions and the glacial level we

descended story by story into the submerged part, where indeed we soon saw we were in a

continuous maze of connected chambers and passages probably leading over unlimited

areas outside this particular building. The Cyclopean massiveness and giganticism of

everything about us became curiously oppressive; and there was something vaguely but

deeply unhuman in all the contours, dimensions, proportions, decorations, and constructional

nuances of the blasphemously archaic stonework. We soon realised from what the carvings

revealed that this monstrous city was many million years old.

We cannot yet explain the engineering principles used in the anomalous balancing and

adjustment of the vast rock masses, though the function of the arch was clearly much relied

on. The rooms we visited were wholly bare of all portable contents, a circumstance which

sustained our belief in the city‘s deliberate desertion. The prime decorative feature was the

almost universal system of mural sculpture; which tended to run in continuous horizontal

bands three feet wide and arranged from floor to ceiling in alternation with bands of equal

width given over to geometrical arabesques. There were exceptions to this rule of

arrangement, but its preponderance was overwhelming. Often, however, a series of smooth

cartouches containing oddly patterned groups of dots would be sunk along one of the

arabesque bands.

The technique, we soon saw, was mature, accomplished, and aesthetically evolved to the

highest degree of civilised mastery; though utterly alien in every detail to any known art

tradition of the human race. In delicacy of execution no sculpture I have ever seen could

approach it. The minutest details of elaborate vegetation, or of animal life, were rendered with

astonishing vividness despite the bold scale of the carvings; whilst the conventional designs

were marvels of skilful intricacy. The arabesques displayed a profound use of mathematical

principles, and were made up of obscurely symmetrical curves and angles based on the

quantity of five. The pictorial bands followed a highly formalised tradition, and involved a

peculiar treatment of perspective; but had an artistic force that moved us profoundly

notwithstanding the intervening gulf of vast geologic periods. Their method of design hinged

on a singular juxtaposition of the cross-section with the two-dimensional silhouette, and

embodied an analytical psychology beyond that of any known race of antiquity. It is useless to

try to compare this art with any represented in our museums. Those who see our photographs

will probably find its closest analogue in certain grotesque conceptions of the most daring

futurists.

The arabesque tracery consisted altogether of depressed lines whose depth on unweathered

walls varied from one to two inches. When cartouches with dot-groups appeared—evidently

as inscriptions in some unknown and primordial language and alphabet—the depression of

the smooth surface was perhaps an inch and a half, and of the dots perhaps a half-inch more.

The pictorial bands were in counter-sunk low relief, their background being depressed about

two inches from the original wall surface. In some specimens marks of a former colouration

could be detected, though for the most part the untold aeons had disintegrated and banished

any pigments which may have been applied. The more one studied the marvellous technique

the more one admired the things. Beneath their strict conventionalisation one could grasp the

minute and accurate observation and graphic skill of the artists; and indeed, the very

conventions themselves served to symbolise and accentuate the real essence or vital

differentiation of every object delineated. We felt, too, that besides these recognisable

excellences there were others lurking beyond the reach of our perceptions. Certain touches

here and there gave vague hints of latent symbols and stimuli which another mental and

emotional background, and a fuller or different sensory equipment, might have made of

profound and poignant significance to us.

The subject-matter of the sculptures obviously came from the life of the vanished epoch of

their creation, and contained a large proportion of evident history. It is this abnormal historic-

mindedness of the primal race—a chance circumstance operating, through coincidence,

miraculously in our favour—which made the carvings so awesomely informative to us, and

which caused us to place their photography and transcription above all other considerations.

In certain rooms the dominant arrangement was varied by the presence of maps,

astronomical charts, and other scientific designs on an enlarged scale—these things giving a

naive and terrible corroboration to what we gathered from the pictorial friezes and dadoes. In

hinting at what the whole revealed, I can only hope that my account will not arouse a curiosity

greater than sane caution on the part of those who believe me at all. It would be tragic if any

were to be allured to that realm of death and horror by the very warning meant to discourage

them.

Interrupting these sculptured walls were high windows and massive twelve-foot doorways;

both now and then retaining the petrified wooden planks—elaborately carved and polished—

of the actual shutters and doors. All metal fixtures had long ago vanished, but some of the

doors remained in place and had to be forced aside as we progressed from room to room.

Window-frames with odd transparent panes—mostly elliptical—survived here and there,

though in no considerable quantity. There were also frequent niches of great magnitude,

generally empty, but once in a while containing some bizarre object carved from green

soapstone which was either broken or perhaps held too inferior to warrant removal. Other

apertures were undoubtedly connected with bygone mechanical facilities—heating, lighting,

and the like—of a sort suggested in many of the carvings. Ceilings tended to be plain, but had

sometimes been inlaid with green soapstone or other tiles, mostly fallen now. Floors were

also paved with such tiles, though plain stonework predominated.

As I have said, all furniture and other moveables were absent; but the sculptures gave a clear

idea of the strange devices which had once filled these tomb-like, echoing rooms. Above the

glacial sheet the floors were generally thick with detritus, litter, and debris; but farther down

this condition decreased. In some of the lower chambers and corridors there was little more

than gritty dust or ancient incrustations, while occasional areas had an uncanny air of newly

swept immaculateness. Of course, where rifts or collapses had occurred, the lower levels

were as littered as the upper ones. A central court—as in other structures we had seen from

the air—saved the inner regions from total darkness; so that we seldom had to use our

electric torches in the upper rooms except when studying sculptured details. Below the ice-

cap, however, the twilight deepened; and in many parts of the tangled ground level there was

an approach to absolute blackness.

To form even a rudimentary idea of our thoughts and feelings as we penetrated this aeon-

silent maze of unhuman masonry one must correlate a hopelessly bewildering chaos of

fugitive moods, memories, and impressions. The sheer appalling antiquity and lethal

desolation of the place were enough to overwhelm almost any sensitive person, but added to

these elements were the recent unexplained horror at the camp, and the revelations all too

soon effected by the terrible mural sculptures around us. The moment we came upon a

perfect section of carving, where no ambiguity of interpretation could exist, it took only a brief

study to give us the hideous truth—a truth which it would be naive to claim Danforth and I had

not independently suspected before, though we had carefully refrained from even hinting it to

each other. There could now be no further merciful doubt about the nature of the beings which

had built and inhabited this monstrous dead city millions of years ago, when man‘s ancestors

were primitive archaic mammals, and vast dinosaurs roamed the tropical steppes of Europe

and Asia.

We had previously clung to a desperate alternative and insisted—each to himself—that the

omnipresence of the five-pointed motif meant only some cultural or religious exaltation of the

Archaean natural object which had so patently embodied the quality of five-pointedness; as

the decorative motifs of Minoan Crete exalted the sacred bull, those of Egypt the scarabaeus,

those of Rome the wolf and the eagle, and those of various savage tribes some chosen

totem-animal. But this lone refuge was now stripped from us, and we were forced to face

definitely the reason-shaking realisation which the reader of these pages has doubtless long

ago anticipated. I can scarcely bear to write it down in black and white even now, but perhaps

that will not be necessary.

The things once rearing and dwelling in this frightful masonry in the age of dinosaurs were not

indeed dinosaurs, but far worse. Mere dinosaurs were new and almost brainless objects—but

the builders of the city were wise and old, and had left certain traces in rocks even then laid

down well-nigh a thousand million years . . . rocks laid down before the true life of earth had

advanced beyond plastic groups of cells . . . rocks laid down before the true life of earth had

existed at all. They were the makers and enslavers of that life, and above all doubt the

originals of the fiendish elder myths which things like the Pnakotic Manuscripts and the

Necronomicon affrightedly hint about. They were the Great Old Ones that had filtered down

from the stars when earth was young—the beings whose substance an alien evolution had

shaped, and whose powers were such as this planet had never bred. And to think that only

the day before Danforth and I had actually looked upon fragments of their millennially

fossilised substance . . . and that poor Lake and his party had seen their complete outlines. . .

It is of course impossible for me to relate in proper order the stages by which we picked up

what we know of that monstrous chapter of pre-human life. After the first shock of the certain

revelation we had to pause a while to recuperate, and it was fully three o‘clock before we got

started on our actual tour of systematic research. The sculptures in the building we entered

were of relatively late date—perhaps two million years ago—as checked up by geological,

biological, and astronomical features; and embodied an art which would be called decadent in

comparison with that of specimens we found in older buildings after crossing bridges under

the glacial sheet. One edifice hewn from the solid rock seemed to go back forty or possibly

even fifty million years—to the lower Eocene or upper Cretaceous—and contained bas-reliefs

of an artistry surpassing anything else, with one tremendous exception, that we encountered.

That was, we have since agreed, the oldest domestic structure we traversed.

Were it not for the support of those flashlights soon to be made public, I would refrain from

telling what I found and inferred, lest I be confined as a madman. Of course, the infinitely

early parts of the patchwork tale—representing the pre-terrestrial life of the star-headed

beings on other planets, and in other galaxies, and in other universes—can readily be

interpreted as the fantastic mythology of those beings themselves; yet such parts sometimes

involved designs and diagrams so uncannily close to the latest findings of mathematics and

astrophysics that I scarcely know what to think. Let others judge when they see the

photographs I shall publish.

Naturally, no one set of carvings which we encountered told more than a fraction of any

connected story; nor did we even begin to come upon the various stages of that story in their

proper order. Some of the vast rooms were independent units so far as their designs were

concerned, whilst in other cases a continuous chronicle would be carried through a series of

rooms and corridors. The best of the maps and diagrams were on the walls of a frightful abyss

below even the ancient ground level—a cavern perhaps 200 feet square and sixty feet high,

which had almost undoubtedly been an educational centre of some sort. There were many

provoking repetitions of the same material in different rooms and buildings; since certain

chapters of experience, and certain summaries or phases of racial history, had evidently been

favourites with different decorators or dwellers. Sometimes, though, variant versions of the

same theme proved useful in settling debatable points and filling in gaps.

I still wonder that we deduced so much in the short time at our disposal. Of course, we even

now have only the barest outline; and much of that was obtained later on from a study of the

photographs and sketches we made. It may be the effect of this later study—the revived

memories and vague impressions acting in conjunction with his general sensitiveness and

with that final supposed horror-glimpse whose essence he will not reveal even to me—which

has been the immediate source of Danforth‘s present breakdown. But it had to be; for we

could not issue our warning intelligently without the fullest possible information, and the

issuance of that warning is a prime necessity. Certain lingering influences in that unknown

antarctic world of disordered time and alien natural law make it imperative that further

exploration be discouraged.

VII.

The full story, so far as deciphered, will shortly appear in an official bulletin of Miskatonic

University. Here I shall sketch only the salient high lights in a formless, rambling way. Myth or

otherwise, the sculptures told of the coming of those star-headed things to the nascent,

lifeless earth out of cosmic space—their coming, and the coming of many other alien entities

such as at certain times embark upon spatial pioneering. They seemed able to traverse the

interstellar ether on their vast membraneous wings—thus oddly confirming some curious hill

folklore long ago told me by an antiquarian colleague. They had lived under the sea a good

deal, building fantastic cities and fighting terrific battles with nameless adversaries by means

of intricate devices employing unknown principles of energy. Evidently their scientific and

mechanical knowledge far surpassed man‘s today, though they made use of its more

widespread and elaborate forms only when obliged to. Some of the sculptures suggested that

they had passed through a stage of mechanised life on other planets, but had receded upon

finding its effects emotionally unsatisfying. Their preternatural toughness of organisation and

simplicity of natural wants made them peculiarly able to live on a high plane without the more

specialised fruits of artificial manufacture, and even without garments except for occasional

protection against the elements.

It was under the sea, at first for food and later for other purposes, that they first created earth-

life—using available substances according to long-known methods. The more elaborate

experiments came after the annihilation of various cosmic enemies. They had done the same

thing on other planets; having manufactured not only necessary foods, but certain

multicellular protoplasmic masses capable of moulding their tissues into all sorts of temporary

organs under hypnotic influence and thereby forming ideal slaves to perform the heavy work

of the community. These viscous masses were without doubt what Abdul Alhazred whispered

about as the ―shoggoths‖ in his frightful Necronomicon, though even that mad Arab had not

hinted that any existed on earth except in the dreams of those who had chewed a certain

alkaloidal herb. When the star-headed Old Ones on this planet had synthesised their simple

food forms and bred a good supply of shoggoths, they allowed other cell-groups to develop

into other forms of animal and vegetable life for sundry purposes; extirpating any whose

presence became troublesome.

With the aid of the shoggoths, whose expansions could be made to lift prodigious weights, the

small, low cities under the sea grew to vast and imposing labyrinths of stone not unlike those

which later rose on land. Indeed, the highly adaptable Old Ones had lived much on land in

other parts of the universe, and probably retained many traditions of land construction. As we

studied the architecture of all these sculptured palaeogean cities, including that whose aeon-

dead corridors we were even then traversing, we were impressed by a curious coincidence

which we have not yet tried to explain, even to ourselves. The tops of the buildings, which in

the actual city around us had of course been weathered into shapeless ruins ages ago, were

clearly displayed in the bas-reliefs; and shewed vast clusters of needle-like spires, delicate

finials on certain cone and pyramid apexes, and tiers of thin, horizontal scalloped discs

capping cylindrical shafts. This was exactly what we had seen in that monstrous and

portentous mirage, cast by a dead city whence such skyline features had been absent for

thousands and tens of thousands of years, which loomed on our ignorant eyes across the

unfathomed mountains of madness as we first approached poor Lake‘s ill-fated camp.

Of the life of the Old Ones, both under the sea and after part of them migrated to land,

volumes could be written. Those in shallow water had continued the fullest use of the eyes at

the ends of their five main head tentacles, and had practiced the arts of sculpture and of

writing in quite the usual way—the writing accomplished with a stylus on waterproof waxen

surfaces. Those lower down in the ocean depths, though they used a curious phosphorescent

organism to furnish light, pieced out their vision with obscure special senses operating

through the prismatic cilia on their heads—senses which rendered all the Old Ones partly

independent of light in emergencies. Their forms of sculpture and writing had changed

curiously during the descent, embodying certain apparently chemical coating processes—

probably to secure phosphorescence—which the bas-reliefs could not make clear to us. The

beings moved in the sea partly by swimming—using the lateral crinoid arms—and partly by

wriggling with the lower tier of tentacles containing the pseudo-feet. Occasionally they

accomplished long swoops with the auxiliary use of two or more sets of their fan-like folding

wings. On land they locally used the pseudo-feet, but now and then flew to great heights or

over long distances with their wings. The many slender tentacles into which the crinoid arms

branched were infinitely delicate, flexible, strong, and accurate in muscular-nervous

coördination; ensuring the utmost skill and dexterity in all artistic and other manual operations.

The toughness of the things was almost incredible. Even the terrific pressures of the deepest

sea-bottoms appeared powerless to harm them. Very few seemed to die at all except by

violence, and their burial-places were very limited. The fact that they covered their vertically

inhumed dead with five-pointed inscribed mounds set up thoughts in Danforth and me which

made a fresh pause and recuperation necessary after the sculptures revealed it. The beings

multiplied by means of spores—like vegetable pteridophytes as Lake had suspected—but

owing to their prodigious toughness and longevity, and consequent lack of replacement

needs, they did not encourage the large-scale development of new prothalli except when they

had new regions to colonise. The young matured swiftly, and received an education evidently

beyond any standard we can imagine. The prevailing intellectual and aesthetic life was highly

evolved, and produced a tenaciously enduring set of customs and institutions which I shall

describe more fully in my coming monograph. These varied slightly according to sea or land

residence, but had the same foundations and essentials.

Though able, like vegetables, to derive nourishment from inorganic substances; they vastly

preferred organic and especially animal food. They ate uncooked marine life under the sea,

but cooked their viands on land. They hunted game and raised meat herds—slaughtering with

sharp weapons whose odd marks on certain fossil bones our expedition had noted. They

resisted all ordinary temperatures marvellously; and in their natural state could live in water

down to freezing. When the great chill of the Pleistocene drew on, however—nearly a million

years ago—the land dwellers had to resort to special measures including artificial heating;

until at last the deadly cold appears to have driven them back into the sea. For their

prehistoric flights through cosmic space, legend said, they had absorbed certain chemicals

and became almost independent of eating, breathing, or heat conditions; but by the time of

the great cold they had lost track of the method. In any case they could not have prolonged

the artificial state indefinitely without harm.

Being non-pairing and semi-vegetable in structure, the Old Ones had no biological basis for

the family phase of mammal life; but seemed to organise large households on the principles

of comfortable space-utility and—as we deduced from the pictured occupations and

diversions of co-dwellers—congenial mental association. In furnishing their homes they kept

everything in the centre of the huge rooms, leaving all the wall spaces free for decorative

treatment. Lighting, in the case of the land inhabitants, was accomplished by a device

probably electro-chemical in nature. Both on land and under water they used curious tables,

chairs, and couches like cylindrical frames—for they rested and slept upright with folded-down

tentacles—and racks for the hinged sets of dotted surfaces forming their books.

Government was evidently complex and probably socialistic, though no certainties in this

regard could be deduced from the sculptures we saw. There was extensive commerce, both

local and between different cities; certain small, flat counters, five-pointed and inscribed,

serving as money. Probably the smaller of the various greenish soapstones found by our

expedition were pieces of such currency. Though the culture was mainly urban, some

agriculture and much stock-raising existed. Mining and a limited amount of manufacturing

were also practiced. Travel was very frequent, but permanent migration seemed relatively

rare except for the vast colonising movements by which the race expanded. For personal

locomotion no external aid was used; since in land, air, and water movement alike the Old

Ones seemed to possess excessively vast capacities for speed. Loads, however, were drawn

by beasts of burden—shoggoths under the sea, and a curious variety of primitive vertebrates

in the later years of land existence.

These vertebrates, as well as an infinity of other life-forms—animal and vegetable, marine,

terrestrial, and aërial—were the products of unguided evolution acting on life-cells made by

the Old Ones but escaping beyond their radius of attention. They had been suffered to

develop unchecked because they had not come in conflict with the dominant beings.

Bothersome forms, of course, were mechanically exterminated. It interested us to see in

some of the very last and most decadent sculptures a shambling primitive mammal, used

sometimes for food and sometimes as an amusing buffoon by the land dwellers, whose

vaguely simian and human foreshadowings were unmistakable. In the building of land cities

the huge stone blocks of the high towers were generally lifted by vast-winged pterodactyls of

a species heretofore unknown to palaeontology.

The persistence with which the Old Ones survived various geologic changes and convulsions

of the earth‘s crust was little short of miraculous. Though few or none of their first cities seem

to have remained beyond the Archaean age, there was no interruption in their civilisation or in

the transmission of their records. Their original place of advent to the planet was the Antarctic

Ocean, and it is likely that they came not long after the matter forming the moon was

wrenched from the neighbouring South Pacific. According to one of the sculptured maps, the

whole globe was then under water, with stone cities scattered farther and farther from the

antarctic as aeons passed. Another map shews a vast bulk of dry land around the south pole,

where it is evident that some of the beings made experimental settlements though their main

centres were transferred to the nearest sea-bottom. Later maps, which display this land mass

as cracking and drifting, and sending certain detached parts northward, uphold in a striking

way the theories of continental drift lately advanced by Taylor, Wegener, and Joly.

With the upheaval of new land in the South Pacific tremendous events began. Some of the

marine cities were hopelessly shattered, yet that was not the worst misfortune. Another

race—a land race of beings shaped like octopi and probably corresponding to the fabulous

pre-human spawn of Cthulhu—soon began filtering down from cosmic infinity and precipitated

a monstrous war which for a time drove the Old Ones wholly back to the sea—a colossal blow

in view of the increasing land settlements. Later peace was made, and the new lands were

given to the Cthulhu spawn whilst the Old Ones held the sea and the older lands. New land

cities were founded—the greatest of them in the antarctic, for this region of first arrival was

sacred. From then on, as before, the antarctic remained the centre of the Old Ones‘

civilisation, and all the discoverable cities built there by the Cthulhu spawn were blotted out.

Then suddenly the lands of the Pacific sank again, taking with them the frightful stone city of

R‘lyeh and all the cosmic octopi, so that the Old Ones were again supreme on the planet

except for one shadowy fear about which they did not like to speak. At a rather later age their

cities dotted all the land and water areas of the globe—hence the recommendation in my

coming monograph that some archaeologist make systematic borings with Pabodie‘s type of

apparatus in certain widely separated regions.

The steady trend down the ages was from water to land; a movement encouraged by the rise

of new land masses, though the ocean was never wholly deserted. Another cause of the

landward movement was the new difficulty in breeding and managing the shoggoths upon

which successful sea-life depended. With the march of time, as the sculptures sadly

confessed, the art of creating new life from inorganic matter had been lost; so that the Old

Ones had to depend on the moulding of forms already in existence. On land the great reptiles

proved highly tractable; but the shoggoths of the sea, reproducing by fission and acquiring a

dangerous degree of accidental intelligence, presented for a time a formidable problem.

They had always been controlled through the hypnotic suggestion of the Old Ones, and had

modelled their tough plasticity into various useful temporary limbs and organs; but now their

self-modelling powers were sometimes exercised independently, and in various imitative

forms implanted by past suggestion. They had, it seems, developed a semi-stable brain

whose separate and occasionally stubborn volition echoed the will of the Old Ones without

always obeying it. Sculptured images of these shoggoths filled Danforth and me with horror

and loathing. They were normally shapeless entities composed of a viscous jelly which looked

like an agglutination of bubbles; and each averaged about fifteen feet in diameter when a

sphere. They had, however, a constantly shifting shape and volume; throwing out temporary

developments or forming apparent organs of sight, hearing, and speech in imitation of their

masters, either spontaneously or according to suggestion.

They seem to have become peculiarly intractable toward the middle of the Permian age,

perhaps 150 million years ago, when a veritable war of re-subjugation was waged upon them

by the marine Old Ones. Pictures of this war, and of the headless, slime-coated fashion in

which the shoggoths typically left their slain victims, held a marvellously fearsome quality

despite the intervening abyss of untold ages. The Old Ones had used curious weapons of

molecular disturbance against the rebel entities, and in the end had achieved a complete

victory. Thereafter the sculptures shewed a period in which shoggoths were tamed and

broken by armed Old Ones as the wild horses of the American west were tamed by cowboys.

Though during the rebellion the shoggoths had shewn an ability to live out of water, this

transition was not encouraged; since their usefulness on land would hardly have been

commensurate with the trouble of their management.

During the Jurassic age the Old Ones met fresh adversity in the form of a new invasion from

outer space—this time by half-fungous, half-crustacean creatures from a planet identifiable as

the remote and recently discovered Pluto; creatures undoubtedly the same as those figuring

in certain whispered hill legends of the north, and remembered in the Himalayas as the Mi-

Go, or Abominable Snow-Men. To fight these beings the Old Ones attempted, for the first time

since their terrene advent, to sally forth again into the planetary ether; but despite all

traditional preparations found it no longer possible to leave the earth‘s atmosphere. Whatever

the old secret of interstellar travel had been, it was now definitely lost to the race. In the end

the Mi-Go drove the Old Ones out of all the northern lands, though they were powerless to

disturb those in the sea. Little by little the slow retreat of the elder race to their original

antarctic habitat was beginning.

It was curious to note from the pictured battles that both the Cthulhu spawn and the Mi-Go

seem to have been composed of matter more widely different from that which we know than

was the substance of the Old Ones. They were able to undergo transformations and

reintegrations impossible for their adversaries, and seem therefore to have originally come

from even remoter gulfs of cosmic space. The Old Ones, but for their abnormal toughness

and peculiar vital properties, were strictly material, and must have had their absolute origin

within the known space-time continuum; whereas the first sources of the other beings can

only be guessed at with bated breath. All this, of course, assuming that the non-terrestrial

linkages and the anomalies ascribed to the invading foes are not pure mythology.

Conceivably, the Old Ones might have invented a cosmic framework to account for their

occasional defeats; since historical interest and pride obviously formed their chief

psychological element. It is significant that their annals failed to mention many advanced and

potent races of beings whose mighty cultures and towering cities figure persistently in certain

obscure legends.

The changing state of the world through long geologic ages appeared with startling vividness

in many of the sculptured maps and scenes. In certain cases existing science will require

revision, while in other cases its bold deductions are magnificently confirmed. As I have said,

the hypothesis of Taylor, Wegener, and Joly that all the continents are fragments of an original

antarctic land mass which cracked from centrifugal force and drifted apart over a technically

viscous lower surface—an hypothesis suggested by such things as the complementary

outlines of Africa and South America, and the way the great mountain chains are rolled and

shoved up—receives striking support from this uncanny source.

Maps evidently shewing the Carboniferous world of an hundred million or more years ago

displayed significant rifts and chasms destined later to separate Africa from the once

continuous realms of Europe (then the Valusia of hellish primal legend), Asia, the Americas,

and the antarctic continent. Other charts—and most significantly one in connexion with the

founding fifty million years ago of the vast dead city around us—shewed all the present

continents well differentiated. And in the latest discoverable specimen—dating perhaps from

the Pliocene age—the approximate world of today appeared quite clearly despite the linkage

of Alaska with Siberia, of North America with Europe through Greenland, and of South

America with the antarctic continent through Graham Land. In the Carboniferous map the

whole globe—ocean floor and rifted land mass alike—bore symbols of the Old Ones‘ vast

stone cities, but in the later charts the gradual recession toward the antarctic became very

plain. The final Pliocene specimen shewed no land cities except on the antarctic continent

and the tip of South America, nor any ocean cities north of the fiftieth parallel of South

Latitude. Knowledge and interest in the northern world, save for a study of coast-lines

probably made during long exploration flights on those fan-like membraneous wings, had

evidently declined to zero among the Old Ones.

Destruction of cities through the upthrust of mountains, the centrifugal rending of continents,

the seismic convulsions of land or sea-bottom, and other natural causes was a matter of

common record; and it was curious to observe how fewer and fewer replacements were made

as the ages wore on. The vast dead megalopolis that yawned around us seemed to be the

last general centre of the race; built early in the Cretaceous age after a titanic earth-buckling

had obliterated a still vaster predecessor not far distant. It appeared that this general region

was the most sacred spot of all, where reputedly the first Old Ones had settled on a primal

sea-bottom. In the new city—many of whose features we could recognise in the sculptures,

but which stretched fully an hundred miles along the mountain-range in each direction beyond

the farthest limits of our aërial survey—there were reputed to be preserved certain sacred

stones forming part of the first sea-bottom city, which were thrust up to light after long epochs

in the course of the general crumpling of strata.

VIII.

Naturally, Danforth and I studied with especial interest and a peculiarly personal sense of awe

everything pertaining to the immediate district in which we were. Of this local material there

was naturally a vast abundance; and on the tangled ground level of the city we were lucky

enough to find a house of very late date whose walls, though somewhat damaged by a

neighbouring rift, contained sculptures of decadent workmanship carrying the story of the

region much beyond the period of the Pliocene map whence we derived our last general

glimpse of the pre-human world. This was the last place we examined in detail, since what we

found there gave us a fresh immediate objective.

Certainly, we were in one of the strangest, weirdest, and most terrible of all the corners of

earth‘s globe. Of all existing lands it was infinitely the most ancient; and the conviction grew

upon us that this hideous upland must indeed be the fabled nightmare plateau of Leng which

even the mad author of the Necronomicon was reluctant to discuss. The great mountain chain

was tremendously long—starting as a low range at Luitpold Land on the coast of Weddell Sea

and virtually crossing the entire continent. The really high part stretched in a mighty arc from

about Latitude 82°, E. Longitude 60° to Latitude 70°, E. Longitude 115°, with its concave side

toward our camp and its seaward end in the region of that long, ice-locked coast whose hills

were glimpsed by Wilkes and Mawson at the Antarctic Circle.

Yet even more monstrous exaggerations of Nature seemed disturbingly close at hand. I have

said that these peaks are higher than the Himalayas, but the sculptures forbid me to say that

they are earth‘s highest. That grim honour is beyond doubt reserved for something which half

the sculptures hesitated to record at all, whilst others approached it with obvious repugnance

and trepidation. It seems that there was one part of the ancient land—the first part that ever

rose from the waters after the earth had flung off the moon and the Old Ones had seeped

down from the stars—which had come to be shunned as vaguely and namelessly evil. Cities

built there had crumbled before their time, and had been found suddenly deserted. Then

when the first great earth-buckling had convulsed the region in the Comanchian age, a

frightful line of peaks had shot suddenly up amidst the most appalling din and chaos—and

earth had received her loftiest and most terrible mountains.

If the scale of the carvings was correct, these abhorred things must have been much over

40,000 feet high—radically vaster than even the shocking mountains of madness we had

crossed. They extended, it appeared, from about Latitude 77°, E. Longitude 70° to Latitude

70°, E. Longitude 100°—less than 300 miles away from the dead city, so that we would have

spied their dreaded summits in the dim western distance had it not been for that vague

opalescent haze. Their northern end must likewise be visible from the long Antarctic Circle

coast-line at Queen Mary Land.

Some of the Old Ones, in the decadent days, had made strange prayers to those mountains;

but none ever went near them or dared to guess what lay beyond. No human eye had ever

seen them, and as I studied the emotions conveyed in the carvings I prayed that none ever

might. There are protecting hills along the coast beyond them—Queen Mary and Kaiser

Wilhelm Lands—and I thank heaven no one has been able to land and climb those hills. I am

not as sceptical about old tales and fears as I used to be, and I do not laugh now at the pre-

human sculptor‘s notion that lightning paused meaningfully now and then at each of the

brooding crests, and that an unexplained glow shone from one of those terrible pinnacles all

through the long polar night. There may be a very real and very monstrous meaning in the old

Pnakotic whispers about Kadath in the Cold Waste.

But the terrain close at hand was hardly less strange, even if less namelessly accursed. Soon

after the founding of the city the great mountain-range became the seat of the principal

temples, and many carvings shewed what grotesque and fantastic towers had pierced the sky

where now we saw only the curiously clinging cubes and ramparts. In the course of ages the

caves had appeared, and had been shaped into adjuncts of the temples. With the advance of

still later epochs all the limestone veins of the region were hollowed out by ground waters, so

that the mountains, the foothills, and the plains below them were a veritable network of

connected caverns and galleries. Many graphic sculptures told of explorations deep

underground, and of the final discovery of the Stygian sunless sea that lurked at earth‘s

bowels.

This vast nighted gulf had undoubtedly been worn by the great river which flowed down from

the nameless and horrible westward mountains, and which had formerly turned at the base of

the Old Ones‘ range and flowed beside that chain into the Indian Ocean between Budd and

Totten Lands on Wilkes‘s coast-line. Little by little it had eaten away the limestone hill base at

its turning, till at last its sapping currents reached the caverns of the ground waters and joined

with them in digging a deeper abyss. Finally its whole bulk emptied into the hollow hills and

left the old bed toward the ocean dry. Much of the later city as we now found it had been built

over that former bed. The Old Ones, understanding what had happened, and exercising their

always keen artistic sense, had carved into ornate pylons those headlands of the foothills

where the great stream began its descent into eternal darkness.

This river, once crossed by scores of noble stone bridges, was plainly the one whose extinct

course we had seen in our aëroplane survey. Its position in different carvings of the city

helped us to orient ourselves to the scene as it had been at various stages of the region‘s

age-long, aeon-dead history; so that we were able to sketch a hasty but careful map of the

salient features—squares, important buildings, and the like—for guidance in further

explorations. We could soon reconstruct in fancy the whole stupendous thing as it was a

million or ten million or fifty million years ago, for the sculptures told us exactly what the

buildings and mountains and squares and suburbs and landscape setting and luxuriant

Tertiary vegetation had looked like. It must have had a marvellous and mystic beauty, and as I

thought of it I almost forgot the clammy sense of sinister oppression with which the city‘s

inhuman age and massiveness and deadness and remoteness and glacial twilight had

choked and weighed on my spirit. Yet according to certain carvings the denizens of that city

had themselves known the clutch of oppressive terror; for there was a sombre and recurrent

type of scene in which the Old Ones were shewn in the act of recoiling affrightedly from some

object—never allowed to appear in the design—found in the great river and indicated as

having been washed down through waving, vine-draped cycad-forests from those horrible

westward mountains.

It was only in the one late-built house with the decadent carvings that we obtained any

foreshadowing of the final calamity leading to the city‘s desertion. Undoubtedly there must

have been many sculptures of the same age elsewhere, even allowing for the slackened

energies and aspirations of a stressful and uncertain period; indeed, very certain evidence of

the existence of others came to us shortly afterward. But this was the first and only set we

directly encountered. We meant to look farther later on; but as I have said, immediate

conditions dictated another present objective. There would, though, have been a limit—for

after all hope of a long future occupancy of the place had perished among the Old Ones,

there could not but have been a complete cessation of mural decoration. The ultimate blow, of

course, was the coming of the great cold which once held most of the earth in thrall, and

which has never departed from the ill-fated poles—the great cold that, at the world‘s other

extremity, put an end to the fabled lands of Lomar and Hyperborea.

Just when this tendency began in the antarctic it would be hard to say in terms of exact years.

Nowadays we set the beginning of the general glacial periods at a distance of about 500,000

years from the present, but at the poles the terrible scourge must have commenced much

earlier. All quantitative estimates are partly guesswork; but it is quite likely that the decadent

sculptures were made considerably less than a million years ago, and that the actual

desertion of the city was complete long before the conventional opening of the Pleistocene—

500,000 years ago—as reckoned in terms of the earth‘s whole surface.

In the decadent sculptures there were signs of thinner vegetation everywhere, and of a

decreased country life on the part of the Old Ones. Heating devices were shewn in the

houses, and winter travellers were represented as muffled in protective fabrics. Then we saw

a series of cartouches (the continuous band arrangement being frequently interrupted in

these late carvings) depicting a constantly growing migration to the nearest refuges of greater

warmth—some fleeing to cities under the sea off the far-away coast, and some clambering

down through networks of limestone caverns in the hollow hills to the neighbouring black

abyss of subterrene waters.

In the end it seems to have been the neighbouring abyss which received the greatest

colonisation. This was partly due, no doubt, to the traditional sacredness of this especial

region; but may have been more conclusively determined by the opportunities it gave for

continuing the use of the great temples on the honeycombed mountains, and for retaining the

vast land city as a place of summer residence and base of communication with various mines.

The linkage of old and new abodes was made more effective by means of several gradings

and improvements along the connecting routes, including the chiselling of numerous direct

tunnels from the ancient metropolis to the black abyss—sharply down-pointing tunnels whose

mouths we carefully drew, according to our most thoughtful estimates, on the guide map we

were compiling. It was obvious that at least two of these tunnels lay within a reasonable

exploring distance of where we were; both being on the mountainward edge of the city, one

less than a quarter-mile toward the ancient river-course, and the other perhaps twice that

distance in the opposite direction.

The abyss, it seems, had shelving shores of dry land at certain places; but the Old Ones built

their new city under water—no doubt because of its greater certainty of uniform warmth. The

depth of the hidden sea appears to have been very great, so that the earth‘s internal heat

could ensure its habitability for an indefinite period. The beings seem to have had no trouble

in adapting themselves to part-time—and eventually, of course, whole-time—residence under

water; since they had never allowed their gill systems to atrophy. There were many sculptures

which shewed how they had always frequently visited their submarine kinsfolk elsewhere, and

how they had habitually bathed on the deep bottom of their great river. The darkness of inner

earth could likewise have been no deterrent to a race accustomed to long antarctic nights.

Decadent though their style undoubtedly was, these latest carvings had a truly epic quality

where they told of the building of the new city in the cavern sea. The Old Ones had gone

about it scientifically; quarrying insoluble rocks from the heart of the honeycombed mountains,

and employing expert workers from the nearest submarine city to perform the construction

according to the best methods. These workers brought with them all that was necessary to

establish the new venture—shoggoth-tissue from which to breed stone-lifters and subsequent

beasts of burden for the cavern city, and other protoplasmic matter to mould into

phosphorescent organisms for lighting purposes.

At last a mighty metropolis rose on the bottom of that Stygian sea; its architecture much like

that of the city above, and its workmanship displaying relatively little decadence because of

the precise mathematical element inherent in building operations. The newly bred shoggoths

grew to enormous size and singular intelligence, and were represented as taking and

executing orders with marvellous quickness. They seemed to converse with the Old Ones by

mimicking their voices—a sort of musical piping over a wide range, if poor Lake‘s dissection

had indicated aright—and to work more from spoken commands than from hypnotic

suggestions as in earlier times. They were, however, kept in admirable control. The

phosphorescent organisms supplied light with vast effectiveness, and doubtless atoned for

the loss of the familiar polar auroras of the outer-world night.

Art and decoration were pursued, though of course with a certain decadence. The Old Ones

seemed to realise this falling off themselves; and in many cases anticipated the policy of

Constantine the Great by transplanting especially fine blocks of ancient carving from their

land city, just as the emperor, in a similar age of decline, stripped Greece and Asia of their

finest art to give his new Byzantine capital greater splendours than its own people could

create. That the transfer of sculptured blocks had not been more extensive, was doubtless

owing to the fact that the land city was not at first wholly abandoned. By the time total

abandonment did occur—and it surely must have occurred before the polar Pleistocene was

far advanced—the Old Ones had perhaps become satisfied with their decadent art—or had

ceased to recognise the superior merit of the older carvings. At any rate, the aeon-silent ruins

around us had certainly undergone no wholesale sculptural denudation; though all the best

separate statues, like other moveables, had been taken away.

The decadent cartouches and dadoes telling this story were, as I have said, the latest we

could find in our limited search. They left us with a picture of the Old Ones shuttling back and

forth betwixt the land city in summer and the sea-cavern city in winter, and sometimes trading

with the sea-bottom cities off the antarctic coast. By this time the ultimate doom of the land

city must have been recognised, for the sculptures shewed many signs of the cold‘s malign

encroachments. Vegetation was declining, and the terrible snows of the winter no longer

melted completely even in midsummer. The saurian livestock were nearly all dead, and the

mammals were standing it none too well. To keep on with the work of the upper world it had

become necessary to adapt some of the amorphous and curiously cold-resistant shoggoths to

land life; a thing the Old Ones had formerly been reluctant to do. The great river was now

lifeless, and the upper sea had lost most of its denizens except the seals and whales. All the

birds had flown away, save only the great, grotesque penguins.

What had happened afterward we could only guess. How long had the new sea-cavern city

survived? Was it still down there, a stony corpse in eternal blackness? Had the subterranean

waters frozen at last? To what fate had the ocean-bottom cities of the outer world been

delivered? Had any of the Old Ones shifted north ahead of the creeping ice-cap? Existing

geology shews no trace of their presence. Had the frightful Mi-Go been still a menace in the

outer land world of the north? Could one be sure of what might or might not linger even to this

day in the lightless and unplumbed abysses of earth‘s deepest waters? Those things had

seemingly been able to withstand any amount of pressure—and men of the sea have fished

up curious objects at times. And has the killer-whale theory really explained the savage and

mysterious scars on antarctic seals noticed a generation ago by Borchgrevingk?

The specimens found by poor Lake did not enter into these guesses, for their geologic setting

proved them to have lived at what must have been a very early date in the land city‘s history.

They were, according to their location, certainly not less than thirty million years old; and we

reflected that in their day the sea-cavern city, and indeed the cavern itself, had no existence.

They would have remembered an older scene, with lush Tertiary vegetation everywhere, a

younger land city of flourishing arts around them, and a great river sweeping northward along

the base of the mighty mountains toward a far-away tropic ocean.

And yet we could not help thinking about these specimens—especially about the eight perfect

ones that were missing from Lake‘s hideously ravaged camp. There was something abnormal

about that whole business—the strange things we had tried so hard to lay to somebody‘s

madness—those frightful graves—the amount and nature of the missing material—Gedney—

the unearthly toughness of those archaic monstrosities, and the queer vital freaks the

sculptures now shewed the race to have. . . . Danforth and I had seen a good deal in the last

few hours, and were prepared to believe and keep silent about many appalling and incredible

secrets of primal Nature.

IX.

I have said that our study of the decadent sculptures brought about a change in our

immediate objective. This of course had to do with the chiselled avenues to the black inner

world, of whose existence we had not known before, but which we were now eager to find

and traverse. From the evident scale of the carvings we deduced that a steeply descending

walk of about a mile through either of the neighbouring tunnels would bring us to the brink of

the dizzy sunless cliffs above the great abyss; down whose side adequate paths, improved by

the Old Ones, led to the rocky shore of the hidden and nighted ocean. To behold this fabulous

gulf in stark reality was a lure which seemed impossible of resistance once we knew of the

thing—yet we realised we must begin the quest at once if we expected to include it on our

present flight.

It was now 8 P.M., and we had not enough battery replacements to let our torches burn on

forever. We had done so much of our studying and copying below the glacial level that our

battery supply had had at least five hours of nearly continuous use; and despite the special

dry cell formula would obviously be good for only about four more—though by keeping one

torch unused, except for especially interesting or difficult places, we might manage to eke out

a safe margin beyond that. It would not do to be without a light in these Cyclopean

catacombs, hence in order to make the abyss trip we must give up all further mural

deciphering. Of course we intended to revisit the place for days and perhaps weeks of

intensive study and photography—curiosity having long ago got the better of horror—but just

now we must hasten. Our supply of trail-blazing paper was far from unlimited, and we were

reluctant to sacrifice spare notebooks or sketching paper to augment it; but we did let one

large notebook go. If worst came to worst, we could resort to rock-chipping—and of course it

would be possible, even in case of really lost direction, to work up to full daylight by one

channel or another if granted sufficient time for plentiful trial and error. So at last we set off

eagerly in the indicated direction of the nearest tunnel.

According to the carvings from which we had made our map, the desired tunnel-mouth could

not be much more than a quarter-mile from where we stood; the intervening space shewing

solid-looking buildings quite likely to be penetrable still at a sub-glacial level. The opening

itself would be in the basement—on the angle nearest the foothills—of a vast five-pointed

structure of evidently public and perhaps ceremonial nature, which we tried to identify from

our aërial survey of the ruins. No such structure came to our minds as we recalled our flight,

hence we concluded that its upper parts had been greatly damaged, or that it had been totally

shattered in an ice-rift we had noticed. In the latter case the tunnel would probably turn out to

be choked, so that we would have to try the next nearest one—the one less than a mile to the

north. The intervening river-course prevented our trying any of the more southerly tunnels on

this trip; and indeed, if both of the neighbouring ones were choked it was doubtful whether our

batteries would warrant an attempt on the next northerly one—about a mile beyond our

second choice.

As we threaded our dim way through the labyrinth with the aid of map and compass—

traversing rooms and corridors in every stage of ruin or preservation, clambering up ramps,

crossing upper floors and bridges and clambering down again, encountering choked

doorways and piles of debris, hastening now and then along finely preserved and uncannily

immaculate stretches, taking false leads and retracing our way (in such cases removing the

blind paper trail we had left), and once in a while striking the bottom of an open shaft through

which daylight poured or trickled down—we were repeatedly tantalised by the sculptured walls

along our route. Many must have told tales of immense historical importance, and only the

prospect of later visits reconciled us to the need of passing them by. As it was, we slowed

down once in a while and turned on our second torch. If we had had more films we would

certainly have paused briefly to photograph certain bas-reliefs, but time-consuming hand

copying was clearly out of the question.

I come now once more to a place where the temptation to hesitate, or to hint rather than state,

is very strong. It is necessary, however, to reveal the rest in order to justify my course in

discouraging further exploration. We had wormed our way very close to the computed site of

the tunnel‘s mouth—having crossed a second-story bridge to what seemed plainly the tip of a

pointed wall, and descended to a ruinous corridor especially rich in decadently elaborate and

apparently ritualistic sculptures of late workmanship—when, about 8:30 P.M., Danforth‘s keen

young nostrils gave us the first hint of something unusual. If we had had a dog with us, I

suppose we would have been warned before. At first we could not precisely say what was

wrong with the formerly crystal-pure air, but after a few seconds our memories reacted only

too definitely. Let me try to state the thing without flinching. There was an odour—and that

odour was vaguely, subtly, and unmistakably akin to what had nauseated us upon opening the

insane grave of the horror poor Lake had dissected.

Of course the revelation was not as clearly cut at the time as it sounds now. There were

several conceivable explanations, and we did a good deal of indecisive whispering. Most

important of all, we did not retreat without further investigation; for having come this far, we

were loath to be balked by anything short of certain disaster. Anyway, what we must have

suspected was altogether too wild to believe. Such things did not happen in any normal world.

It was probably sheer irrational instinct which made us dim our single torch—tempted no

longer by the decadent and sinister sculptures that leered menacingly from the oppressive

walls—and which softened our progress to a cautious tiptoeing and crawling over the

increasingly littered floor and heaps of debris.

Danforth‘s eyes as well as nose proved better than mine, for it was likewise he who first

noticed the queer aspect of the debris after we had passed many half-choked arches leading

to chambers and corridors on the ground level. It did not look quite as it ought after countless

thousands of years of desertion, and when we cautiously turned on more light we saw that a

kind of swath seemed to have been lately tracked through it. The irregular nature of the litter

precluded any definite marks, but in the smoother places there were suggestions of the

dragging of heavy objects. Once we thought there was a hint of parallel tracks, as if of

runners. This was what made us pause again.

It was during that pause that we caught—simultaneously this time—the other odour ahead.

Paradoxically, it was both a less frightful and a more frightful odour—less frightful intrinsically,

but infinitely appalling in this place under the known circumstances . . . unless, of course,

Gedney. . . . For the odour was the plain and familiar one of common petrol—every-day

gasoline.

Our motivation after that is something I will leave to psychologists. We knew now that some

terrible extension of the camp horrors must have crawled into this nighted burial-place of the

aeons, hence could not doubt any longer the existence of nameless conditions—present or at

least recent—just ahead. Yet in the end we did let sheer burning curiosity—or anxiety—or

auto-hypnotism—or vague thoughts of responsibility toward Gedney—or what not—drive us

on. Danforth whispered again of the print he thought he had seen at the alley-turning in the

ruins above; and of the faint musical piping—potentially of tremendous significance in the light

of Lake‘s dissection report despite its close resemblance to the cave-mouth echoes of the

windy peaks—which he thought he had shortly afterward half heard from unknown depths

below. I, in my turn, whispered of how the camp was left—of what had disappeared, and of

how the madness of a lone survivor might have conceived the inconceivable—a wild trip

across the monstrous mountains and a descent into the unknown primal masonry—

But we could not convince each other, or even ourselves, of anything definite. We had turned

off all light as we stood still, and vaguely noticed that a trace of deeply filtered upper day kept

the blackness from being absolute. Having automatically begun to move ahead, we guided

ourselves by occasional flashes from our torch. The disturbed debris formed an impression

we could not shake off, and the smell of gasoline grew stronger. More and more ruin met our

eyes and hampered our feet, until very soon we saw that the forward way was about to

cease. We had been all too correct in our pessimistic guess about that rift glimpsed from the

air. Our tunnel quest was a blind one, and we were not even going to be able to reach the

basement out of which the abyssward aperture opened.

The torch, flashing over the grotesquely carven walls of the blocked corridor in which we

stood, shewed several doorways in various states of obstruction; and from one of them the

gasoline odour—quite submerging that other hint of odour—came with especial distinctness.

As we looked more steadily, we saw that beyond a doubt there had been a slight and recent

clearing away of debris from that particular opening. Whatever the lurking horror might be, we

believed the direct avenue toward it was now plainly manifest. I do not think anyone will

wonder that we waited an appreciable time before making any further motion.

And yet, when we did venture inside that black arch, our first impression was one of

anticlimax. For amidst the littered expanse of that sculptured crypt—a perfect cube with sides

of about twenty feet—there remained no recent object of instantly discernible size; so that we

looked instinctively, though in vain, for a farther doorway. In another moment, however,

Danforth‘s sharp vision had descried a place where the floor debris had been disturbed; and

we turned on both torches full strength. Though what we saw in that light was actually simple

and trifling, I am none the less reluctant to tell of it because of what it implied. It was a rough

levelling of the debris, upon which several small objects lay carelessly scattered, and at one

corner of which a considerable amount of gasoline must have been spilled lately enough to

leave a strong odour even at this extreme super-plateau altitude. In other words, it could not

be other than a sort of camp—a camp made by questing beings who like us had been turned

back by the unexpectedly choked way to the abyss.

Let me be plain. The scattered objects were, so far as substance was concerned, all from

Lake‘s camp; and consisted of tin cans as queerly opened as those we had seen at that

ravaged place, many spent matches, three illustrated books more or less curiously smudged,

an empty ink bottle with its pictorial and instructional carton, a broken fountain pen, some

oddly snipped fragments of fur and tent-cloth, a used electric battery with circular of

directions, a folder that came with our type of tent heater, and a sprinkling of crumpled

papers. It was all bad enough, but when we smoothed out the papers and looked at what was

on them we felt we had come to the worst. We had found certain inexplicably blotted papers

at the camp which might have prepared us, yet the effect of the sight down there in the pre-

human vaults of a nightmare city was almost too much to bear.

A mad Gedney might have made the groups of dots in imitation of those found on the

greenish soapstones, just as the dots on those insane five-pointed grave-mounds might have

been made; and he might conceivably have prepared rough, hasty sketches—varying in their

accuracy or lack of it—which outlined the neighbouring parts of the city and traced the way

from a circularly represented place outside our previous route—a place we identified as a

great cylindrical tower in the carvings and as a vast circular gulf glimpsed in our aërial

survey—to the present five-pointed structure and the tunnel-mouth therein. He might, I repeat,

have prepared such sketches; for those before us were quite obviously compiled as our own

had been from late sculptures somewhere in the glacial labyrinth, though not from the ones

which we had seen and used. But what this art-blind bungler could never have done was to

execute those sketches in a strange and assured technique perhaps superior, despite haste

and carelessness, to any of the decadent carvings from which they were taken—the

characteristic and unmistakable technique of the Old Ones themselves in the dead city‘s

heyday.

There are those who will say Danforth and I were utterly mad not to flee for our lives after

that; since our conclusions were now—notwithstanding their wildness—completely fixed, and

of a nature I need not even mention to those who have read my account as far as this.

Perhaps we were mad—for have I not said those horrible peaks were mountains of madness?

But I think I can detect something of the same spirit—albeit in a less extreme form—in the

men who stalk deadly beasts through African jungles to photograph them or study their habits.

Half-paralysed with terror though we were, there was nevertheless fanned within us a blazing

flame of awe and curiosity which triumphed in the end.

Of course we did not mean to face that—or those—which we knew had been there, but we

felt that they must be gone by now. They would by this time have found the other

neighbouring entrance to the abyss, and have passed within to whatever night-black

fragments of the past might await them in the ultimate gulf—the ultimate gulf they had never

seen. Or if that entrance, too, was blocked, they would have gone on to the north seeking

another. They were, we remembered, partly independent of light.

Looking back to that moment, I can scarcely recall just what precise form our new emotions

took—just what change of immediate objective it was that so sharpened our sense of

expectancy. We certainly did not mean to face what we feared—yet I will not deny that we

may have had a lurking, unconscious wish to spy certain things from some hidden vantage-

point. Probably we had not given up our zeal to glimpse the abyss itself, though there was

interposed a new goal in the form of that great circular place shewn on the crumpled sketches

we had found. We had at once recognised it as a monstrous cylindrical tower figuring in the

very earliest carvings, but appearing only as a prodigious round aperture from above.

Something about the impressiveness of its rendering, even in these hasty diagrams, made us

think that its sub-glacial levels must still form a feature of peculiar importance. Perhaps it

embodied architectural marvels as yet unencountered by us. It was certainly of incredible age

according to the sculptures in which it figured—being indeed among the first things built in the

city. Its carvings, if preserved, could not but be highly significant. Moreover, it might form a

good present link with the upper world—a shorter route than the one we were so carefully

blazing, and probably that by which those others had descended.

At any rate, the thing we did was to study the terrible sketches—which quite perfectly

confirmed our own—and start back over the indicated course to the circular place; the course

which our nameless predecessors must have traversed twice before us. The other

neighbouring gate to the abyss would lie beyond that. I need not speak of our journey—during

which we continued to leave an economical trail of paper—for it was precisely the same in

kind as that by which we had reached the cul de sac; except that it tended to adhere more

closely to the ground level and even descend to basement corridors. Every now and then we

could trace certain disturbing marks in the debris or litter under foot; and after we had passed

outside the radius of the gasoline scent we were again faintly conscious—spasmodically—of

that more hideous and more persistent scent. After the way had branched from our former

course we sometimes gave the rays of our single torch a furtive sweep along the walls; noting

in almost every case the well-nigh omnipresent sculptures, which indeed seem to have

formed a main aesthetic outlet for the Old Ones.

About 9:30 P.M., while traversing a vaulted corridor whose increasingly glaciated floor

seemed somewhat below the ground level and whose roof grew lower as we advanced, we

began to see strong daylight ahead and were able to turn off our torch. It appeared that we

were coming to the vast circular place, and that our distance from the upper air could not be

very great. The corridor ended in an arch surprisingly low for these megalithic ruins, but we

could see much through it even before we emerged. Beyond there stretched a prodigious

round space—fully 200 feet in diameter—strown with debris and containing many choked

archways corresponding to the one we were about to cross. The walls were—in available

spaces—boldly sculptured into a spiral band of heroic proportions; and displayed, despite the

destructive weathering caused by the openness of the spot, an artistic splendour far beyond

anything we had encountered before. The littered floor was quite heavily glaciated, and we

fancied that the true bottom lay at a considerably lower depth.

But the salient object of the place was the titanic stone ramp which, eluding the archways by

a sharp turn outward into the open floor, wound spirally up the stupendous cylindrical wall like

an inside counterpart of those once climbing outside the monstrous towers or ziggurats of

antique Babylon. Only the rapidity of our flight, and the perspective which confounded the

descent with the tower‘s inner wall, had prevented our noticing this feature from the air, and

thus caused us to seek another avenue to the sub-glacial level. Pabodie might have been

able to tell what sort of engineering held it in place, but Danforth and I could merely admire

and marvel. We could see mighty stone corbels and pillars here and there, but what we saw

seemed inadequate to the function performed. The thing was excellently preserved up to the

present top of the tower—a highly remarkable circumstance in view of its exposure—and its

shelter had done much to protect the bizarre and disturbing cosmic sculptures on the walls.

As we stepped out into the awesome half-daylight of this monstrous cylinder-bottom—fifty

million years old, and without doubt the most primally ancient structure ever to meet our

eyes—we saw that the ramp-traversed sides stretched dizzily up to a height of fully sixty feet.

This, we recalled from our aërial survey, meant an outside glaciation of some forty feet; since

the yawning gulf we had seen from the plane had been at the top of an approximately twenty-

foot mound of crumbled masonry, somewhat sheltered for three-fourths of its circumference

by the massive curving walls of a line of higher ruins. According to the sculptures the original

tower had stood in the centre of an immense circular plaza; and had been perhaps 500 or 600

feet high, with tiers of horizontal discs near the top, and a row of needle-like spires along the

upper rim. Most of the masonry had obviously toppled outward rather than inward—a

fortunate happening, since otherwise the ramp might have been shattered and the whole

interior choked. As it was, the ramp shewed sad battering; whilst the choking was such that all

the archways at the bottom seemed to have been recently half-cleared.

It took us only a moment to conclude that this was indeed the route by which those others had

descended, and that this would be the logical route for our own ascent despite the long trail of

paper we had left elsewhere. The tower‘s mouth was no farther from the foothills and our

waiting plane than was the great terraced building we had entered, and any further sub-glacial

exploration we might make on this trip would lie in this general region. Oddly, we were still

thinking about possible later trips—even after all we had seen and guessed. Then as we

picked our way cautiously over the debris of the great floor, there came a sight which for the

time excluded all other matters.

It was the neatly huddled array of three sledges in that farther angle of the ramp‘s lower and

outward-projecting course which had hitherto been screened from our view. There they

were—the three sledges missing from Lake‘s camp—shaken by a hard usage which must

have included forcible dragging along great reaches of snowless masonry and debris, as well

as much hand portage over utterly unnavigable places. They were carefully and intelligently

packed and strapped, and contained things memorably familiar enough—the gasoline stove,

fuel cans, instrument cases, provision tins, tarpaulins obviously bulging with books, and some

bulging with less obvious contents—everything derived from Lake‘s equipment. After what we

had found in that other room, we were in a measure prepared for this encounter. The really

great shock came when we stepped over and undid one tarpaulin whose outlines had

peculiarly disquieted us. It seems that others as well as Lake had been interested in collecting

typical specimens; for there were two here, both stiffly frozen, perfectly preserved, patched

with adhesive plaster where some wounds around the neck had occurred, and wrapped with

patent care to prevent further damage. They were the bodies of young Gedney and the

missing dog.

Many people will probably judge us callous as well as mad for thinking about the northward

tunnel and the abyss so soon after our sombre discovery, and I am not prepared to say that

we would have immediately revived such thoughts but for a specific circumstance which broke

in upon us and set up a whole new train of speculations. We had replaced the tarpaulin over

poor Gedney and were standing in a kind of mute bewilderment when the sounds finally

reached our consciousness—the first sounds we had heard since descending out of the open

where the mountain wind whined faintly from its unearthly heights. Well known and mundane

though they were, their presence in this remote world of death was more unexpected and

unnerving than any grotesque or fabulous tones could possibly have been—since they gave a

fresh upsetting to all our notions of cosmic harmony.

Had it been some trace of that bizarre musical piping over a wide range which Lake‘s

dissection report had led us to expect in those others—and which, indeed, our overwrought

fancies had been reading into every wind-howl we had heard since coming on the camp

horror—it would have had a kind of hellish congruity with the aeon-dead region around us. A

voice from other epochs belongs in a graveyard of other epochs. As it was, however, the

noise shattered all our profoundly seated adjustments—all our tacit acceptance of the inner

antarctic as a waste as utterly and irrevocably void of every vestige of normal life as the

sterile disc of the moon. What we heard was not the fabulous note of any buried blasphemy of

elder earth from whose supernal toughness an age-denied polar sun had evoked a monstrous

response. Instead, it was a thing so mockingly normal and so unerringly familiarised by our

sea days off Victoria Land and our camp days at McMurdo Sound that we shuddered to think

of it here, where such things ought not to be. To be brief—it was simply the raucous

squawking of a penguin.

The muffled sound floated from sub-glacial recesses nearly opposite to the corridor whence

we had come—regions manifestly in the direction of that other tunnel to the vast abyss. The

presence of a living water-bird in such a direction—in a world whose surface was one of age-

long and uniform lifelessness—could lead to only one conclusion; hence our first thought was

to verify the objective reality of the sound. It was, indeed, repeated; and seemed at times to

come from more than one throat. Seeking its source, we entered an archway from which

much debris had been cleared; resuming our trail-blazing—with an added paper-supply taken

with curious repugnance from one of the tarpaulin bundles on the sledges—when we left

daylight behind.

As the glaciated floor gave place to a litter of detritus, we plainly discerned some curious

dragging tracks; and once Danforth found a distinct print of a sort whose description would be

only too superfluous. The course indicated by the penguin cries was precisely what our map

and compass prescribed as an approach to the more northerly tunnel-mouth, and we were

glad to find that a bridgeless thoroughfare on the ground and basement levels seemed open.

The tunnel, according to the chart, ought to start from the basement of a large pyramidal

structure which we seemed vaguely to recall from our aërial survey as remarkably well

preserved. Along our path the single torch shewed a customary profusion of carvings, but we

did not pause to examine any of these.

Suddenly a bulky white shape loomed up ahead of us, and we flashed on the second torch. It

is odd how wholly this new quest had turned our minds from earlier fears of what might lurk

near. Those other ones, having left their supplies in the great circular place, must have

planned to return after their scouting trip toward or into the abyss; yet we had now discarded

all caution concerning them as completely as if they had never existed. This white, waddling

thing was fully six feet high, yet we seemed to realise at once that it was not one of those

others. They were larger and dark, and according to the sculptures their motion over land

surfaces was a swift, assured matter despite the queerness of their sea-born tentacle

equipment. But to say that the white thing did not profoundly frighten us would be vain. We

were indeed clutched for an instant by a primitive dread almost sharper than the worst of our

reasoned fears regarding those others. Then came a flash of anticlimax as the white shape

sidled into a lateral archway to our left to join two others of its kind which had summoned it in

raucous tones. For it was only a penguin—albeit of a huge, unknown species larger than the

greatest of the known king penguins, and monstrous in its combined albinism and virtual

eyelessness.

When we had followed the thing into the archway and turned both our torches on the

indifferent and unheeding group of three we saw that they were all eyeless albinos of the

same unknown and gigantic species. Their size reminded us of some of the archaic penguins

depicted in the Old Ones‘ sculptures, and it did not take us long to conclude that they were

descended from the same stock—undoubtedly surviving through a retreat to some warmer

inner region whose perpetual blackness had destroyed their pigmentation and atrophied their

eyes to mere useless slits. That their present habitat was the vast abyss we sought, was not

for a moment to be doubted; and this evidence of the gulf‘s continued warmth and habitability

filled us with the most curious and subtly perturbing fancies.

We wondered, too, what had caused these three birds to venture out of their usual domain.

The state and silence of the great dead city made it clear that it had at no time been an

habitual seasonal rookery, whilst the manifest indifference of the trio to our presence made it

seem odd that any passing party of those others should have startled them. Was it possible

that those others had taken some aggressive action or tried to increase their meat supply?

We doubted whether that pungent odour which the dogs had hated could cause an equal

antipathy in these penguins; since their ancestors had obviously lived on excellent terms with

the Old Ones—an amicable relationship which must have survived in the abyss below as long

as any of the Old Ones remained. Regretting—in a flareup of the old spirit of pure science—

that we could not photograph these anomalous creatures, we shortly left them to their

squawking and pushed on toward the abyss whose openness was now so positively proved

to us, and whose exact direction occasional penguin tracks made clear.

Not long afterward a steep descent in a long, low, doorless, and peculiarly sculptureless

corridor led us to believe that we were approaching the tunnel-mouth at last. We had passed

two more penguins, and heard others immediately ahead. Then the corridor ended in a

prodigious open space which made us gasp involuntarily—a perfect inverted hemisphere,

obviously deep underground; fully an hundred feet in diameter and fifty feet high, with low

archways opening around all parts of the circumference but one, and that one yawning

cavernously with a black arched aperture which broke the symmetry of the vault to a height of

nearly fifteen feet. It was the entrance to the great abyss.

In this vast hemisphere, whose concave roof was impressively though decadently carved to a

likeness of the primordial celestial dome, a few albino penguins waddled—aliens there, but

indifferent and unseeing. The black tunnel yawned indefinitely off at a steep descending

grade, its aperture adorned with grotesquely chiselled jambs and lintel. From that cryptical

mouth we fancied a current of slightly warmer air and perhaps even a suspicion of vapour

proceeded; and we wondered what living entities other than penguins the limitless void below,

and the contiguous honeycombings of the land and the titan mountains, might conceal. We

wondered, too, whether the trace of mountain-top smoke at first suspected by poor Lake, as

well as the odd haze we had ourselves perceived around the rampart-crowned peak, might

not be caused by the tortuous-channelled rising of some such vapour from the unfathomed

regions of earth‘s core.

Entering the tunnel, we saw that its outline was—at least at the start—about fifteen feet each

way; sides, floor, and arched roof composed of the usual megalithic masonry. The sides were

sparsely decorated with cartouches of conventional designs in a late, decadent style; and all

the construction and carving were marvellously well preserved. The floor was quite clear,

except for a slight detritus bearing outgoing penguin tracks and the inward tracks of those

others. The farther one advanced, the warmer it became; so that we were soon unbuttoning

our heavy garments. We wondered whether there were any actually igneous manifestations

below, and whether the waters of that sunless sea were hot. After a short distance the

masonry gave place to solid rock, though the tunnel kept the same proportions and presented

the same aspect of carved regularity. Occasionally its varying grade became so steep that

grooves were cut in the floor. Several times we noted the mouths of small lateral galleries not

recorded in our diagrams; none of them such as to complicate the problem of our return, and

all of them welcome as possible refuges in case we met unwelcome entities on their way back

from the abyss. The nameless scent of such things was very distinct. Doubtless it was

suicidally foolish to venture into that tunnel under the known conditions, but the lure of the

unplumbed is stronger in certain persons than most suspect—indeed, it was just such a lure

which had brought us to this unearthly polar waste in the first place. We saw several penguins

as we passed along, and speculated on the distance we would have to traverse. The carvings

had led us to expect a steep downhill walk of about a mile to the abyss, but our previous

wanderings had shewn us that matters of scale were not wholly to be depended on.

After about a quarter of a mile that nameless scent became greatly accentuated, and we kept

very careful track of the various lateral openings we passed. There was no visible vapour as

at the mouth, but this was doubtless due to the lack of contrasting cooler air. The temperature

was rapidly ascending, and we were not surprised to come upon a careless heap of material

shudderingly familiar to us. It was composed of furs and tent-cloth taken from Lake‘s camp,

and we did not pause to study the bizarre forms into which the fabrics had been slashed.

Slightly beyond this point we noticed a decided increase in the size and number of the side-

galleries, and concluded that the densely honeycombed region beneath the higher foothills

must now have been reached. The nameless scent was now curiously mixed with another

and scarcely less offensive odour—of what nature we could not guess, though we thought of

decaying organisms and perhaps unknown subterrene fungi. Then came a startling expansion

of the tunnel for which the carvings had not prepared us—a broadening and rising into a lofty,

natural-looking elliptical cavern with a level floor; some 75 feet long and 50 broad, and with

many immense side-passages leading away into cryptical darkness.

Though this cavern was natural in appearance, an inspection with both torches suggested

that it had been formed by the artificial destruction of several walls between adjacent

honeycombings. The walls were rough, and the high vaulted roof was thick with stalactites;

but the solid rock floor had been smoothed off, and was free from all debris, detritus, or even

dust to a positively abnormal extent. Except for the avenue through which we had come, this

was true of the floors of all the great galleries opening off from it; and the singularity of the

condition was such as to set us vainly puzzling. The curious new foetor which had

supplemented the nameless scent was excessively pungent here; so much so that it

destroyed all trace of the other. Something about this whole place, with its polished and

almost glistening floor, struck us as more vaguely baffling and horrible than any of the

monstrous things we had previously encountered.

The regularity of the passage immediately ahead, as well as the larger proportion of penguin-

droppings there, prevented all confusion as to the right course amidst this plethora of equally

great cave-mouths. Nevertheless we resolved to resume our paper trail-blazing if any further

complexity should develop; for dust tracks, of course, could no longer be expected. Upon

resuming our direct progress we cast a beam of torchlight over the tunnel walls—and stopped

short in amazement at the supremely radical change which had come over the carvings in this

part of the passage. We realised, of course, the great decadence of the Old Ones‘ sculpture

at the time of the tunnelling; and had indeed noticed the inferior workmanship of the

arabesques in the stretches behind us. But now, in this deeper section beyond the cavern,

there was a sudden difference wholly transcending explanation—a difference in basic nature

as well as in mere quality, and involving so profound and calamitous a degradation of skill that

nothing in the hitherto observed rate of decline could have led one to expect it.

This new and degenerate work was coarse, bold, and wholly lacking in delicacy of detail. It

was counter-sunk with exaggerated depth in bands following the same general line as the

sparse cartouches of the earlier sections, but the height of the reliefs did not reach the level of

the general surface. Danforth had the idea that it was a second carving—a sort of palimpsest

formed after the obliteration of a previous design. In nature it was wholly decorative and

conventional; and consisted of crude spirals and angles roughly following the quintile

mathematical tradition of the Old Ones, yet seeming more like a parody than a perpetuation of

that tradition. We could not get it out of our minds that some subtly but profoundly alien

element had been added to the aesthetic feeling behind the technique—an alien element,

Danforth guessed, that was responsible for the manifestly laborious substitution. It was like,

yet disturbingly unlike, what we had come to recognise as the Old Ones‘ art; and I was

persistently reminded of such hybrid things as the ungainly Palmyrene sculptures fashioned in

the Roman manner. That others had recently noticed this belt of carving was hinted by the

presence of a used torch battery on the floor in front of one of the most characteristic designs.

Since we could not afford to spend any considerable time in study, we resumed our advance

after a cursory look; though frequently casting beams over the walls to see if any further

decorative changes developed. Nothing of the sort was perceived, though the carvings were

in places rather sparse because of the numerous mouths of smooth-floored lateral tunnels.

We saw and heard fewer penguins, but thought we caught a vague suspicion of an infinitely

distant chorus of them somewhere deep within the earth. The new and inexplicable odour was

abominably strong, and we could detect scarcely a sign of that other nameless scent. Puffs of

visible vapour ahead bespoke increasing contrasts in temperature, and the relative nearness

of the sunless sea-cliffs of the great abyss. Then, quite unexpectedly, we saw certain

obstructions on the polished floor ahead—obstructions which were quite definitely not

penguins—and turned on our second torch after making sure that the objects were quite

stationary.

XI.

Still another time have I come to a place where it is very difficult to proceed. I ought to be

hardened by this stage; but there are some experiences and intimations which scar too

deeply to permit of healing, and leave only such an added sensitiveness that memory

reinspires all the original horror. We saw, as I have said, certain obstructions on the polished

floor ahead; and I may add that our nostrils were assailed almost simultaneously by a very

curious intensification of the strange prevailing foetor, now quite plainly mixed with the

nameless stench of those others which had gone before us. The light of the second torch left

no doubt of what the obstructions were, and we dared approach them only because we could

see, even from a distance, that they were quite as past all harming power as had been the six

similar specimens unearthed from the monstrous star-mounded graves at poor Lake‘s camp.

They were, indeed, as lacking in completeness as most of those we had unearthed—though it

grew plain from the thick, dark-green pool gathering around them that their incompleteness

was of infinitely greater recency. There seemed to be only four of them, whereas Lake‘s

bulletins would have suggested no less than eight as forming the group which had preceded

us. To find them in this state was wholly unexpected, and we wondered what sort of

monstrous struggle had occurred down here in the dark.

Penguins, attacked in a body, retaliate savagely with their beaks; and our ears now made

certain the existence of a rookery far beyond. Had those others disturbed such a place and

aroused murderous pursuit? The obstructions did not suggest it, for penguin beaks against

the tough tissues Lake had dissected could hardly account for the terrible damage our

approaching glance was beginning to make out. Besides, the huge blind birds we had seen

appeared to be singularly peaceful.

Had there, then, been a struggle among those others, and were the absent four responsible?

If so, where were they? Were they close at hand and likely to form an immediate menace to

us? We glanced anxiously at some of the smooth-floored lateral passages as we continued

our slow and frankly reluctant approach. Whatever the conflict was, it had clearly been that

which had frightened the penguins into their unaccustomed wandering. It must, then, have

arisen near that faintly heard rookery in the incalculable gulf beyond, since there were no

signs that any birds had normally dwelt here. Perhaps, we reflected, there had been a

hideous running fight, with the weaker party seeking to get back to the cached sledges when

their pursuers finished them. One could picture the daemoniac fray between namelessly

monstrous entities as it surged out of the black abyss with great clouds of frantic penguins

squawking and scurrying ahead.

I say that we approached those sprawling and incomplete obstructions slowly and reluctantly.

Would to heaven we had never approached them at all, but had run back at top speed out of

that blasphemous tunnel with the greasily smooth floors and the degenerate murals aping and

mocking the things they had superseded—run back, before we had seen what we did see,

and before our minds were burned with something which will never let us breathe easily

again!

Both of our torches were turned on the prostrate objects, so that we soon realised the

dominant factor in their incompleteness. Mauled, compressed, twisted, and ruptured as they

were, their chief common injury was total decapitation. From each one the tentacled starfish-

head had been removed; and as we drew near we saw that the manner of removal looked

more like some hellish tearing or suction than like any ordinary form of cleavage. Their

noisome dark-green ichor formed a large, spreading pool; but its stench was half

overshadowed by that newer and stranger stench, here more pungent than at any other point

along our route. Only when we had come very close to the sprawling obstructions could we

trace that second, unexplainable foetor to any immediate source—and the instant we did so

Danforth, remembering certain very vivid sculptures of the Old Ones‘ history in the Permian

age 150 million years ago, gave vent to a nerve-tortured cry which echoed hysterically

through that vaulted and archaic passage with the evil palimpsest carvings.

I came only just short of echoing his cry myself; for I had seen those primal sculptures, too,

and had shudderingly admired the way the nameless artist had suggested that hideous slime-

coating found on certain incomplete and prostrate Old Ones—those whom the frightful

shoggoths had characteristically slain and sucked to a ghastly headlessness in the great war

of re-subjugation. They were infamous, nightmare sculptures even when telling of age-old,

bygone things; for shoggoths and their work ought not to be seen by human beings or

portrayed by any beings. The mad author of the Necronomicon had nervously tried to swear

that none had been bred on this planet, and that only drugged dreamers had ever conceived

them. Formless protoplasm able to mock and reflect all forms and organs and processes—

viscous agglutinations of bubbling cells—rubbery fifteen-foot spheroids infinitely plastic and

ductile—slaves of suggestion, builders of cities—more and more sullen, more and more

intelligent, more and more amphibious, more and more imitative—Great God! What madness

made even those blasphemous Old Ones willing to use and to carve such things?

And now, when Danforth and I saw the freshly glistening and reflectively iridescent black

slime which clung thickly to those headless bodies and stank obscenely with that new

unknown odour whose cause only a diseased fancy could envisage—clung to those bodies

and sparkled less voluminously on a smooth part of the accursedly re-sculptured wall in a

series of grouped dots—we understood the quality of cosmic fear to its uttermost depths. It

was not fear of those four missing others—for all too well did we suspect they would do no

harm again. Poor devils! After all, they were not evil things of their kind. They were the men of

another age and another order of being. Nature had played a hellish jest on them—as it will

on any others that human madness, callousness, or cruelty may hereafter drag up in that

hideously dead or sleeping polar waste—and this was their tragic homecoming.

They had not been even savages—for what indeed had they done? That awful awakening in

the cold of an unknown epoch—perhaps an attack by the furry, frantically barking

quadrupeds, and a dazed defence against them and the equally frantic white simians with the

queer wrappings and paraphernalia . . . poor Lake, poor Gedney . . . and poor Old Ones!

Scientists to the last—what had they done that we would not have done in their place? God,

what intelligence and persistence! What a facing of the incredible, just as those carven

kinsmen and forbears had faced things only a little less incredible! Radiates, vegetables,

monstrosities, star-spawn—whatever they had been, they were men!

They had crossed the icy peaks on whose templed slopes they had once worshipped and

roamed among the tree-ferns. They had found their dead city brooding under its curse, and

had read its carven latter days as we had done. They had tried to reach their living fellows in

fabled depths of blackness they had never seen—and what had they found? All this flashed in

unison through the thoughts of Danforth and me as we looked from those headless, slime-

coated shapes to the loathsome palimpsest sculptures and the diabolical dot-groups of fresh

slime on the wall beside them—looked and understood what must have triumphed and

survived down there in the Cyclopean water-city of that nighted, penguin-fringed abyss,

whence even now a sinister curling mist had begun to belch pallidly as if in answer to

Danforth‘s hysterical scream.

The shock of recognising that monstrous slime and headlessness had frozen us into mute,

motionless statues, and it is only through later conversations that we have learned of the

complete identity of our thoughts at that moment. It seemed aeons that we stood there, but

actually it could not have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. That hateful, pallid mist

curled forward as if veritably driven by some remoter advancing bulk—and then came a

sound which upset much of what we had just decided, and in so doing broke the spell and

enabled us to run like mad past squawking, confused penguins over our former trail back to

the city, along ice-sunken megalithic corridors to the great open circle, and up that archaic

spiral ramp in a frenzied automatic plunge for the sane outer air and light of day.

The new sound, as I have intimated, upset much that we had decided; because it was what

poor Lake‘s dissection had led us to attribute to those we had just judged dead. It was,

Danforth later told me, precisely what he had caught in infinitely muffled form when at that

spot beyond the alley-corner above the glacial level; and it certainly had a shocking

resemblance to the wind-pipings we had both heard around the lofty mountain caves. At the

risk of seeming puerile I will add another thing, too; if only because of the surprising way

Danforth‘s impression chimed with mine. Of course common reading is what prepared us both

to make the interpretation, though Danforth has hinted at queer notions about unsuspected

and forbidden sources to which Poe may have had access when writing his Arthur Gordon

Pym a century ago. It will be remembered that in that fantastic tale there is a word of unknown

but terrible and prodigious significance connected with the antarctic and screamed eternally

by the gigantic, spectrally snowy birds of that malign region‘s core. ―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” That, I

may admit, is exactly what we thought we heard conveyed by that sudden sound behind the

advancing white mist—that insidious musical piping over a singularly wide range.

We were in full flight before three notes or syllables had been uttered, though we knew that

the swiftness of the Old Ones would enable any scream-roused and pursuing survivor of the

slaughter to overtake us in a moment if it really wished to do so. We had a vague hope,

however, that non-aggressive conduct and a display of kindred reason might cause such a

being to spare us in case of capture; if only from scientific curiosity. After all, if such an one

had nothing to fear for itself it would have no motive in harming us. Concealment being futile

at this juncture, we used our torch for a running glance behind, and perceived that the mist

was thinning. Would we see, at last, a complete and living specimen of those others? Again

came that insidious musical piping—―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

Then, noting that we were actually gaining on our pursuer, it occurred to us that the entity

might be wounded. We could take no chances, however, since it was very obviously

approaching in answer to Danforth‘s scream rather than in flight from any other entity. The

timing was too close to admit of doubt. Of the whereabouts of that less conceivable and less

mentionable nightmare—that foetid, unglimpsed mountain of slime-spewing protoplasm

whose race had conquered the abyss and sent land pioneers to re-carve and squirm through

the burrows of the hills—we could form no guess; and it cost us a genuine pang to leave this

probably crippled Old One—perhaps a lone survivor—to the peril of recapture and a

nameless fate.

Thank heaven we did not slacken our run. The curling mist had thickened again, and was

driving ahead with increased speed; whilst the straying penguins in our rear were squawking

and screaming and displaying signs of a panic really surprising in view of their relatively minor

confusion when we had passed them. Once more came that sinister, wide-ranged piping—

―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” We had been wrong. The thing was not wounded, but had merely paused

on encountering the bodies of its fallen kindred and the hellish slime inscription above them.

We could never know what that daemon message was—but those burials at Lake‘s camp had

shewn how much importance the beings attached to their dead. Our recklessly used torch

now revealed ahead of us the large open cavern where various ways converged, and we

were glad to be leaving those morbid palimpsest sculptures—almost felt even when scarcely

seen—behind.

Another thought which the advent of the cave inspired was the possibility of losing our

pursuer at this bewildering focus of large galleries. There were several of the blind albino

penguins in the open space, and it seemed clear that their fear of the oncoming entity was

extreme to the point of unaccountability. If at that point we dimmed our torch to the very

lowest limit of travelling need, keeping it strictly in front of us, the frightened squawking

motions of the huge birds in the mist might muffle our footfalls, screen our true course, and

somehow set up a false lead. Amidst the churning, spiralling fog the littered and unglistening

floor of the main tunnel beyond this point, as differing from the other morbidly polished

burrows, could hardly form a highly distinguishing feature; even, so far as we could

conjecture, for those indicated special senses which made the Old Ones partly though

imperfectly independent of light in emergencies. In fact, we were somewhat apprehensive lest

we go astray ourselves in our haste. For we had, of course, decided to keep straight on

toward the dead city; since the consequences of loss in those unknown foothill

honeycombings would be unthinkable.

The fact that we survived and emerged is sufficient proof that the thing did take a wrong

gallery whilst we providentially hit on the right one. The penguins alone could not have saved

us, but in conjunction with the mist they seem to have done so. Only a benign fate kept the

curling vapours thick enough at the right moment, for they were constantly shifting and

threatening to vanish. Indeed, they did lift for a second just before we emerged from the

nauseously re-sculptured tunnel into the cave; so that we actually caught one first and only

half-glimpse of the oncoming entity as we cast a final, desperately fearful glance backward

before dimming the torch and mixing with the penguins in the hope of dodging pursuit. If the

fate which screened us was benign, that which gave us the half-glimpse was infinitely the

opposite; for to that flash of semi-vision can be traced a full half of the horror which has ever

since haunted us.

Our exact motive in looking back again was perhaps no more than the immemorial instinct of

the pursued to gauge the nature and course of its pursuer; or perhaps it was an automatic

attempt to answer a subconscious question raised by one of our senses. In the midst of our

flight, with all our faculties centred on the problem of escape, we were in no condition to

observe and analyse details; yet even so our latent brain-cells must have wondered at the

message brought them by our nostrils. Afterward we realised what it was—that our retreat

from the foetid slime-coating on those headless obstructions, and the coincident approach of

the pursuing entity, had not brought us the exchange of stenches which logic called for. In the

neighbourhood of the prostrate things that new and lately unexplainable foetor had been

wholly dominant; but by this time it ought to have largely given place to the nameless stench

associated with those others. This it had not done—for instead, the newer and less bearable

smell was now virtually undiluted, and growing more and more poisonously insistent each

second.

So we glanced back—simultaneously, it would appear; though no doubt the incipient motion

of one prompted the imitation of the other. As we did so we flashed both torches full strength

at the momentarily thinned mist; either from sheer primitive anxiety to see all we could, or in a

less primitive but equally unconscious effort to dazzle the entity before we dimmed our light

and dodged among the penguins of the labyrinth-centre ahead. Unhappy act! Not Orpheus

himself, or Lot‘s wife, paid much more dearly for a backward glance. And again came that

shocking, wide-ranged piping—―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

I might as well be frank—even if I cannot bear to be quite direct—in stating what we saw;

though at the time we felt that it was not to be admitted even to each other. The words

reaching the reader can never even suggest the awfulness of the sight itself. It crippled our

consciousness so completely that I wonder we had the residual sense to dim our torches as

planned, and to strike the right tunnel toward the dead city. Instinct alone must have carried

us through—perhaps better than reason could have done; though if that was what saved us,

we paid a high price. Of reason we certainly had little enough left. Danforth was totally

unstrung, and the first thing I remember of the rest of the journey was hearing him light-

headedly chant an hysterical formula in which I alone of mankind could have found anything

but insane irrelevance. It reverberated in falsetto echoes among the squawks of the penguins;

reverberated through the vaultings ahead, and—thank God—through the now empty vaultings

behind. He could not have begun it at once—else we would not have been alive and blindly

racing. I shudder to think of what a shade of difference in his nervous reactions might have

brought.

―South Station Under—Washington Under—Park Street Under—Kendall—Central—Harvard. .

. .‖ The poor fellow was chanting the familiar stations of the Boston-Cambridge tunnel that

burrowed through our peaceful native soil thousands of miles away in New England, yet to me

the ritual had neither irrelevance nor home-feeling. It had only horror, because I knew

unerringly the monstrous, nefandous analogy that had suggested it. We had expected, upon

looking back, to see a terrible and incredibly moving entity if the mists were thin enough; but

of that entity we had formed a clear idea. What we did see—for the mists were indeed all too

malignly thinned—was something altogether different, and immeasurably more hideous and

detestable. It was the utter, objective embodiment of the fantastic novelist‘s ‗thing that should

not be‘; and its nearest comprehensible analogue is a vast, onrushing subway train as one

sees it from a station platform—the great black front looming colossally out of infinite

subterraneous distance, constellated with strangely coloured lights and filling the prodigious

burrow as a piston fills a cylinder.

But we were not on a station platform. We were on the track ahead as the nightmare plastic

column of foetid black iridescence oozed tightly onward through its fifteen-foot sinus;

gathering unholy speed and driving before it a spiral, re-thickening cloud of the pallid abyss-

vapour. It was a terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train—a shapeless

congeries of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes

forming and unforming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling front that bore

down upon us, crushing the frantic penguins and slithering over the glistening floor that it and

its kind had swept so evilly free of all litter. Still came that eldritch, mocking cry—―Tekeli-li!

Tekeli-li!” And at last we remembered that the daemoniac shoggoths—given life, thought, and

plastic organ patterns solely by the Old Ones, and having no language save that which the

dot-groups expressed—had likewise no voice save the imitated accents of their bygone

masters.

XII.

Danforth and I have recollections of emerging into the great sculptured hemisphere and of

threading our back trail through the Cyclopean rooms and corridors of the dead city; yet these

are purely dream-fragments involving no memory of volition, details, or physical exertion. It

was as if we floated in a nebulous world or dimension without time, causation, or orientation.

The grey half-daylight of the vast circular space sobered us somewhat; but we did not go near

those cached sledges or look again at poor Gedney and the dog. They have a strange and

titanic mausoleum, and I hope the end of this planet will find them still undisturbed.

It was while struggling up the colossal spiral incline that we first felt the terrible fatigue and

short breath which our race through the thin plateau air had produced; but not even the fear of

collapse could make us pause before reaching the normal outer realm of sun and sky. There

was something vaguely appropriate about our departure from those buried epochs; for as we

wound our panting way up the sixty-foot cylinder of primal masonry we glimpsed beside us a

continuous procession of heroic sculptures in the dead race‘s early and undecayed

technique—a farewell from the Old Ones, written fifty million years ago.

Finally scrambling out at the top, we found ourselves on a great mound of tumbled blocks;

with the curved walls of higher stonework rising westward, and the brooding peaks of the

great mountains shewing beyond the more crumbled structures toward the east. The low

antarctic sun of midnight peered redly from the southern horizon through rifts in the jagged

ruins, and the terrible age and deadness of the nightmare city seemed all the starker by

contrast with such relatively known and accustomed things as the features of the polar

landscape. The sky above was a churning and opalescent mass of tenuous ice-vapours, and

the cold clutched at our vitals. Wearily resting the outfit-bags to which we had instinctively

clung throughout our desperate flight, we rebuttoned our heavy garments for the stumbling

climb down the mound and the walk through the aeon-old stone maze to the foothills where

our aëroplane waited. Of what had set us fleeing from the darkness of earth‘s secret and

archaic gulfs we said nothing at all.

In less than a quarter of an hour we had found the steep grade to the foothills—the probable

ancient terrace—by which we had descended, and could see the dark bulk of our great plane

amidst the sparse ruins on the rising slope ahead. Half way uphill toward our goal we paused

for a momentary breathing-spell, and turned to look again at the fantastic palaeogean tangle

of incredible stone shapes below us—once more outlined mystically against an unknown

west. As we did so we saw that the sky beyond had lost its morning haziness; the restless ice-

vapours having moved up to the zenith, where their mocking outlines seemed on the point of

settling into some bizarre pattern which they feared to make quite definite or conclusive.

There now lay revealed on the ultimate white horizon behind the grotesque city a dim, elfin

line of pinnacled violet whose needle-pointed heights loomed dream-like against the

beckoning rose-colour of the western sky. Up toward this shimmering rim sloped the ancient

table-land, the depressed course of the bygone river traversing it as an irregular ribbon of

shadow. For a second we gasped in admiration of the scene‘s unearthly cosmic beauty, and

then vague horror began to creep into our souls. For this far violet line could be nothing else

than the terrible mountains of the forbidden land—highest of earth‘s peaks and focus of

earth‘s evil; harbourers of nameless horrors and Archaean secrets; shunned and prayed to by

those who feared to carve their meaning; untrodden by any living thing of earth, but visited by

the sinister lightnings and sending strange beams across the plains in the polar night—

beyond doubt the unknown archetype of that dreaded Kadath in the Cold Waste beyond

abhorrent Leng, whereof unholy primal legends hint evasively. We were the first human

beings ever to see them—and I hope to God we may be the last.

If the sculptured maps and pictures in that pre-human city had told truly, these cryptic violet

mountains could not be much less than 300 miles away; yet none the less sharply did their

dim elfin essence jut above that remote and snowy rim, like the serrated edge of a monstrous

alien planet about to rise into unaccustomed heavens. Their height, then, must have been

tremendous beyond all known comparison—carrying them up into tenuous atmospheric strata

peopled by such gaseous wraiths as rash flyers have barely lived to whisper of after

unexplainable falls. Looking at them, I thought nervously of certain sculptured hints of what

the great bygone river had washed down into the city from their accursed slopes—and

wondered how much sense and how much folly had lain in the fears of those Old Ones who

carved them so reticently. I recalled how their northerly end must come near the coast at

Queen Mary Land, where even at that moment Sir Douglas Mawson‘s expedition was

doubtless working less than a thousand miles away; and hoped that no evil fate would give

Sir Douglas and his men a glimpse of what might lie beyond the protecting coastal range.

Such thoughts formed a measure of my overwrought condition at the time—and Danforth

seemed to be even worse.

Yet long before we had passed the great star-shaped ruin and reached our plane our fears

had become transferred to the lesser but vast enough range whose re-crossing lay ahead of

us. From these foothills the black, ruin-crusted slopes reared up starkly and hideously against

the east, again reminding us of those strange Asian paintings of Nicholas Roerich; and when

we thought of the damnable honeycombs inside them, and of the frightful amorphous entities

that might have pushed their foetidly squirming way even to the topmost hollow pinnacles, we

could not face without panic the prospect of again sailing by those suggestive skyward cave-

mouths where the wind made sounds like an evil musical piping over a wide range. To make

matters worse, we saw distinct traces of local mist around several of the summits—as poor

Lake must have done when he made that early mistake about volcanism—and thought

shiveringly of that kindred mist from which we had just escaped; of that, and of the

blasphemous, horror-fostering abyss whence all such vapours came.

All was well with the plane, and we clumsily hauled on our heavy flying furs. Danforth got the

engine started without trouble, and we made a very smooth takeoff over the nightmare city.

Below us the primal Cyclopean masonry spread out as it had done when first we saw it—so

short, yet infinitely long, a time ago—and we began rising and turning to test the wind for our

crossing through the pass. At a very high level there must have been great disturbance, since

the ice-dust clouds of the zenith were doing all sorts of fantastic things; but at 24,000 feet, the

height we needed for the pass, we found navigation quite practicable. As we drew close to the

jutting peaks the wind‘s strange piping again became manifest, and I could see Danforth‘s

hands trembling at the controls. Rank amateur though I was, I thought at that moment that I

might be a better navigator than he in effecting the dangerous crossing between pinnacles;

and when I made motions to change seats and take over his duties he did not protest. I tried

to keep all my skill and self-possession about me, and stared at the sector of reddish farther

sky betwixt the walls of the pass—resolutely refusing to pay attention to the puffs of mountain-

top vapour, and wishing that I had wax-stopped ears like Ulysses‘ men off the Sirens‘ coast to

keep that disturbing wind-piping from my consciousness.

But Danforth, released from his piloting and keyed up to a dangerous nervous pitch, could not

keep quiet. I felt him turning and wriggling about as he looked back at the terrible receding

city, ahead at the cave-riddled, cube-barnacled peaks, sidewise at the bleak sea of snowy,

rampart-strown foothills, and upward at the seething, grotesquely clouded sky. It was then,

just as I was trying to steer safely through the pass, that his mad shrieking brought us so

close to disaster by shattering my tight hold on myself and causing me to fumble helplessly

with the controls for a moment. A second afterward my resolution triumphed and we made the

crossing safely—yet I am afraid that Danforth will never be the same again.

I have said that Danforth refused to tell me what final horror made him scream out so

insanely—a horror which, I feel sadly sure, is mainly responsible for his present breakdown.

We had snatches of shouted conversation above the wind‘s piping and the engine‘s buzzing

as we reached the safe side of the range and swooped slowly down toward the camp, but that

had mostly to do with the pledges of secrecy we had made as we prepared to leave the

nightmare city. Certain things, we had agreed, were not for people to know and discuss

lightly—and I would not speak of them now but for the need of heading off that Starkweather-

Moore Expedition, and others, at any cost. It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety

of mankind, that some of earth‘s dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone; lest

sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares

squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests.

All that Danforth has ever hinted is that the final horror was a mirage. It was not, he declares,

anything connected with the cubes and caves of echoing, vaporous, wormily honeycombed

mountains of madness which we crossed; but a single fantastic, daemoniac glimpse, among

the churning zenith-clouds, of what lay back of those other violet westward mountains which

the Old Ones had shunned and feared. It is very probable that the thing was a sheer delusion

born of the previous stresses we had passed through, and of the actual though unrecognised

mirage of the dead transmontane city experienced near Lake‘s camp the day before; but it

was so real to Danforth that he suffers from it still.

He has on rare occasions whispered disjointed and irresponsible things about ―the black pit‖,

―the carven rim‖, ―the proto-shoggoths‖, ―the windowless solids with five dimensions‖, ―the

nameless cylinder‖, ―the elder pharos‖, ―Yog-Sothoth‖, ―the primal white jelly‖, ―the colour out

of space‖, ―the wings‖, ―the eyes in darkness‖, ―the moon-ladder‖, ―the original, the eternal, the

undying‖, and other bizarre conceptions; but when he is fully himself he repudiates all this and

attributes it to his curious and macabre reading of earlier years. Danforth, indeed, is known to

be among the few who have ever dared go completely through that worm-riddled copy of the

Necronomicon kept under lock and key in the college library.

The higher sky, as we crossed the range, was surely vaporous and disturbed enough; and

although I did not see the zenith I can well imagine that its swirls of ice-dust may have taken

strange forms. Imagination, knowing how vividly distant scenes can sometimes be reflected,

refracted, and magnified by such layers of restless cloud, might easily have supplied the

rest—and of course Danforth did not hint any of those specific horrors till after his memory

had had a chance to draw on his bygone reading. He could never have seen so much in one

instantaneous glance.

At the time his shrieks were confined to the repetition of a single mad word of all too obvious

source:

―Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

Return to Table of Contents

The Shadow Over Innsmouth

(1931)

During the winter of 1927–28 officials of the Federal government made a strange and secret

investigation of certain conditions in the ancient Massachusetts seaport of Innsmouth. The

public first learned of it in February, when a vast series of raids and arrests occurred, followed

by the deliberate burning and dynamiting—under suitable precautions—of an enormous

number of crumbling, worm-eaten, and supposedly empty houses along the abandoned

waterfront. Uninquiring souls let this occurrence pass as one of the major clashes in a

spasmodic war on liquor.

Keener news-followers, however, wondered at the prodigious number of arrests, the

abnormally large force of men used in making them, and the secrecy surrounding the disposal

of the prisoners. No trials, or even definite charges, were reported; nor were any of the

captives seen thereafter in the regular gaols of the nation. There were vague statements

about disease and concentration camps, and later about dispersal in various naval and

military prisons, but nothing positive ever developed. Innsmouth itself was left almost

depopulated, and is even now only beginning to shew signs of a sluggishly revived existence.

Complaints from many liberal organisations were met with long confidential discussions, and

representatives were taken on trips to certain camps and prisons. As a result, these societies

became surprisingly passive and reticent. Newspaper men were harder to manage, but

seemed largely to coöperate with the government in the end. Only one paper—a tabloid

always discounted because of its wild policy—mentioned the deep-diving submarine that

discharged torpedoes downward in the marine abyss just beyond Devil Reef. That item,

gathered by chance in a haunt of sailors, seemed indeed rather far-fetched; since the low,

black reef lies a full mile and a half out from Innsmouth Harbour.

People around the country and in the nearby towns muttered a great deal among themselves,

but said very little to the outer world. They had talked about dying and half-deserted

Innsmouth for nearly a century, and nothing new could be wilder or more hideous than what

they had whispered and hinted years before. Many things had taught them secretiveness, and

there was now no need to exert pressure on them. Besides, they really knew very little; for

wide salt marshes, desolate and unpeopled, keep neighbours off from Innsmouth on the

landward side.

But at last I am going to defy the ban on speech about this thing. Results, I am certain, are so

thorough that no public harm save a shock of repulsion could ever accrue from a hinting of

what was found by those horrified raiders at Innsmouth. Besides, what was found might

possibly have more than one explanation. I do not know just how much of the whole tale has

been told even to me, and I have many reasons for not wishing to probe deeper. For my

contact with this affair has been closer than that of any other layman, and I have carried away

impressions which are yet to drive me to drastic measures.

It was I who fled frantically out of Innsmouth in the early morning hours of July 16, 1927, and

whose frightened appeals for government inquiry and action brought on the whole reported

episode. I was willing enough to stay mute while the affair was fresh and uncertain; but now

that it is an old story, with public interest and curiosity gone, I have an odd craving to whisper

about those few frightful hours in that ill-rumoured and evilly shadowed seaport of death and

blasphemous abnormality. The mere telling helps me to restore confidence in my own

faculties; to reassure myself that I was not simply the first to succumb to a contagious

nightmare hallucination. It helps me, too, in making up my mind regarding a certain terrible

step which lies ahead of me.

I never heard of Innsmouth till the day before I saw it for the first and—so far—last time. I was

celebrating my coming of age by a tour of New England—sightseeing, antiquarian, and

genealogical—and had planned to go directly from ancient Newburyport to Arkham, whence

my mother‘s family was derived. I had no car, but was travelling by train, trolley, and motor-

coach, always seeking the cheapest possible route. In Newburyport they told me that the

steam train was the thing to take to Arkham; and it was only at the station ticket-office, when I

demurred at the high fare, that I learned about Innsmouth. The stout, shrewd-faced agent,

whose speech shewed him to be no local man, seemed sympathetic toward my efforts at

economy, and made a suggestion that none of my other informants had offered.

―You could take that old bus, I suppose,‖ he said with a certain hesitation, ―but it ain‘t thought

much of hereabouts. It goes through Innsmouth—you may have heard about that—and so the

people don‘t like it. Run by an Innsmouth fellow—Joe Sargent—but never gets any custom

from here, or Arkham either, I guess. Wonder it keeps running at all. I s‘pose it‘s cheap

enough, but I never see more‘n two or three people in it—nobody but those Innsmouth folks.

Leaves the Square—front of Hammond‘s Drug Store—at 10 a.m. and 7 p.m. unless they‘ve

changed lately. Looks like a terrible rattletrap—I‘ve never ben on it.‖

That was the first I ever heard of shadowed Innsmouth. Any reference to a town not shewn on

common maps or listed in recent guide-books would have interested me, and the agent‘s odd

manner of allusion roused something like real curiosity. A town able to inspire such dislike in

its neighbours, I thought, must be at least rather unusual, and worthy of a tourist‘s attention. If

it came before Arkham I would stop off there—and so I asked the agent to tell me something

about it. He was very deliberate, and spoke with an air of feeling slightly superior to what he

said.

―Innsmouth? Well, it‘s a queer kind of a town down at the mouth of the Manuxet. Used to be

almost a city—quite a port before the War of 1812—but all gone to pieces in the last hundred

years or so. No railroad now—B. & M. never went through, and the branch line from Rowley

was given up years ago.

―More empty houses than there are people, I guess, and no business to speak of except

fishing and lobstering. Everybody trades mostly here or in Arkham or Ipswich. Once they had

quite a few mills, but nothing‘s left now except one gold refinery running on the leanest kind of

part time.

―That refinery, though, used to be a big thing, and Old Man Marsh, who owns it, must be

richer‘n Croesus. Queer old duck, though, and sticks mighty close in his home. He‘s

supposed to have developed some skin disease or deformity late in life that makes him keep

out of sight. Grandson of Captain Obed Marsh, who founded the business. His mother seems

to‘ve ben some kind of foreigner—they say a South Sea islander—so everybody raised Cain

when he married an Ipswich girl fifty years ago. They always do that about Innsmouth people,

and folks here and hereabouts always try to cover up any Innsmouth blood they have in ‘em.

But Marsh‘s children and grandchildren look just like anyone else so far‘s I can see. I‘ve had

‘em pointed out to me here—though, come to think of it, the elder children don‘t seem to be

around lately. Never saw the old man.

―And why is everybody so down on Innsmouth? Well, young fellow, you mustn‘t take too much

stock in what people around here say. They‘re hard to get started, but once they do get

started they never let up. They‘ve ben telling things about Innsmouth—whispering ‘em,

mostly—for the last hundred years, I guess, and I gather they‘re more scared than anything

else. Some of the stories would make you laugh—about old Captain Marsh driving bargains

with the devil and bringing imps out of hell to live in Innsmouth, or about some kind of devil-

worship and awful sacrifices in some place near the wharves that people stumbled on around

1845 or thereabouts—but I come from Panton, Vermont, and that kind of story don‘t go down

with me.

―You ought to hear, though, what some of the old-timers tell about the black reef off the

coast—Devil Reef, they call it. It‘s well above water a good part of the time, and never much

below it, but at that you could hardly call it an island. The story is that there‘s a whole legion of

devils seen sometimes on that reef—sprawled about, or darting in and out of some kind of

caves near the top. It‘s a rugged, uneven thing, a good bit over a mile out, and toward the end

of shipping days sailors used to make big detours just to avoid it.

―That is, sailors that didn‘t hail from Innsmouth. One of the things they had against old

Captain Marsh was that he was supposed to land on it sometimes at night when the tide was

right. Maybe he did, for I dare say the rock formation was interesting, and it‘s just barely

possible he was looking for pirate loot and maybe finding it; but there was talk of his dealing

with daemons there. Fact is, I guess on the whole it was really the Captain that gave the bad

reputation to the reef.

―That was before the big epidemic of 1846, when over half the folks in Innsmouth was carried

off. They never did quite figure out what the trouble was, but it was probably some foreign

kind of disease brought from China or somewhere by the shipping. It surely was bad

enough—there was riots over it, and all sorts of ghastly doings that I don‘t believe ever got

outside of town—and it left the place in awful shape. Never came back—there can‘t be more‘n

300 or 400 people living there now.

―But the real thing behind the way folks feel is simply race prejudice—and I don‘t say I‘m

blaming those that hold it. I hate those Innsmouth folks myself, and I wouldn‘t care to go to

their town. I s‘pose you know—though I can see you‘re a Westerner by your talk—what a lot

our New England ships used to have to do with queer ports in Africa, Asia, the South Seas,

and everywhere else, and what queer kinds of people they sometimes brought back with ‘em.

You‘ve probably heard about the Salem man that came home with a Chinese wife, and maybe

you know there‘s still a bunch of Fiji Islanders somewhere around Cape Cod.

―Well, there must be something like that back of the Innsmouth people. The place always was

badly cut off from the rest of the country by marshes and creeks, and we can‘t be sure about

the ins and outs of the matter; but it‘s pretty clear that old Captain Marsh must have brought

home some odd specimens when he had all three of his ships in commission back in the

twenties and thirties. There certainly is a strange kind of streak in the Innsmouth folks today—

I don‘t know how to explain it, but it sort of makes you crawl. You‘ll notice a little in Sargent if

you take his bus. Some of ‘em have queer narrow heads with flat noses and bulgy, stary eyes

that never seem to shut, and their skin ain‘t quite right. Rough and scabby, and the sides of

their necks are all shrivelled or creased up. Get bald, too, very young. The older fellows look

the worst—fact is, I don‘t believe I‘ve ever seen a very old chap of that kind. Guess they must

die of looking in the glass! Animals hate ‘em—they used to have lots of horse trouble before

autos came in.

―Nobody around here or in Arkham or Ipswich will have anything to do with ‘em, and they act

kind of offish themselves when they come to town or when anyone tries to fish on their

grounds. Queer how fish are always thick off Innsmouth Harbour when there ain‘t any

anywhere else around—but just try to fish there yourself and see how the folks chase you off!

Those people used to come here on the railroad—walking and taking the train at Rowley after

the branch was dropped—but now they use that bus.

―Yes, there‘s a hotel in Innsmouth—called the Gilman House—but I don‘t believe it can

amount to much. I wouldn‘t advise you to try it. Better stay over here and take the ten o‘clock

bus tomorrow morning; then you can get an evening bus there for Arkham at eight o‘clock.

There was a factory inspector who stopped at the Gilman a couple of years ago, and he had a

lot of unpleasant hints about the place. Seems they get a queer crowd there, for this fellow

heard voices in other rooms—though most of ‘em was empty—that gave him the shivers. It

was foreign talk, he thought, but he said the bad thing about it was the kind of voice that

sometimes spoke. It sounded so unnatural—slopping-like, he said—that he didn‘t dare

undress and go to sleep. Just waited up and lit out the first thing in the morning. The talk went

on most all night.

―This fellow—Casey, his name was—had a lot to say about how the Innsmouth folks watched

him and seemed kind of on guard. He found the Marsh refinery a queer place—it‘s in an old

mill on the lower falls of the Manuxet. What he said tallied up with what I‘d heard. Books in

bad shape, and no clear account of any kind of dealings. You know it‘s always ben a kind of

mystery where the Marshes get the gold they refine. They‘ve never seemed to do much

buying in that line, but years ago they shipped out an enormous lot of ingots.

―Used to be talk of a queer foreign kind of jewellery that the sailors and refinery men

sometimes sold on the sly, or that was seen once or twice on some of the Marsh womenfolks.

People allowed maybe old Captain Obed traded for it in some heathen port, especially since

he was always ordering stacks of glass beads and trinkets such as seafaring men used to get

for native trade. Others thought and still think he‘d found an old pirate cache out on Devil

Reef. But here‘s a funny thing. The old Captain‘s ben dead these sixty years, and there ain‘t

ben a good-sized ship out of the place since the Civil War; but just the same the Marshes still

keep on buying a few of those native trade things—mostly glass and rubber gewgaws, they

tell me. Maybe the Innsmouth folks like ‘em to look at themselves—Gawd knows they‘ve

gotten to be about as bad as South Sea cannibals and Guinea savages.

―That plague of ‘46 must have taken off the best blood in the place. Anyway, they‘re a doubtful

lot now, and the Marshes and the other rich folks are as bad as any. As I told you, there

probably ain‘t more‘n 400 people in the whole town in spite of all the streets they say there

are. I guess they‘re what they call ‗white trash‘ down South—lawless and sly, and full of secret

doings. They get a lot of fish and lobsters and do exporting by truck. Queer how the fish

swarm right there and nowhere else.

―Nobody can ever keep track of these people, and state school officials and census men have

a devil of a time. You can bet that prying strangers ain‘t welcome around Innsmouth. I‘ve

heard personally of more‘n one business or government man that‘s disappeared there, and

there‘s loose talk of one who went crazy and is out at Danvers now. They must have fixed up

some awful scare for that fellow.

―That‘s why I wouldn‘t go at night if I was you. I‘ve never ben there and have no wish to go,

but I guess a daytime trip couldn‘t hurt you—even though the people hereabouts will advise

you not to make it. If you‘re just sightseeing, and looking for old-time stuff, Innsmouth ought to

be quite a place for you.‖

And so I spent part of that evening at the Newburyport Public Library looking up data about

Innsmouth. When I had tried to question the natives in the shops, the lunch room, the

garages, and the fire station, I had found them even harder to get started than the ticket-agent

had predicted; and realised that I could not spare the time to overcome their first instinctive

reticences. They had a kind of obscure suspiciousness, as if there were something amiss with

anyone too much interested in Innsmouth. At the Y.M.C.A., where I was stopping, the clerk

merely discouraged my going to such a dismal, decadent place; and the people at the library

shewed much the same attitude. Clearly, in the eyes of the educated, Innsmouth was merely

an exaggerated case of civic degeneration.

The Essex County histories on the library shelves had very little to say, except that the town

was founded in 1643, noted for shipbuilding before the Revolution, a seat of great marine

prosperity in the early nineteenth century, and later a minor factory centre using the Manuxet

as power. The epidemic and riots of 1846 were very sparsely treated, as if they formed a

discredit to the county.

References to decline were few, though the significance of the later record was unmistakable.

After the Civil War all industrial life was confined to the Marsh Refining Company, and the

marketing of gold ingots formed the only remaining bit of major commerce aside from the

eternal fishing. That fishing paid less and less as the price of the commodity fell and large-

scale corporations offered competition, but there was never a dearth of fish around Innsmouth

Harbour. Foreigners seldom settled there, and there was some discreetly veiled evidence that

a number of Poles and Portuguese who had tried it had been scattered in a peculiarly drastic

fashion.

Most interesting of all was a glancing reference to the strange jewellery vaguely associated

with Innsmouth. It had evidently impressed the whole countryside more than a little, for

mention was made of specimens in the museum of Miskatonic University at Arkham, and in

the display room of the Newburyport Historical Society. The fragmentary descriptions of these

things were bald and prosaic, but they hinted to me an undercurrent of persistent

strangeness. Something about them seemed so odd and provocative that I could not put them

out of my mind, and despite the relative lateness of the hour I resolved to see the local

sample—said to be a large, queerly proportioned thing evidently meant for a tiara—if it could

possibly be arranged.

The librarian gave me a note of introduction to the curator of the Society, a Miss Anna Tilton,

who lived nearby, and after a brief explanation that ancient gentlewoman was kind enough to

pilot me into the closed building, since the hour was not outrageously late. The collection was

a notable one indeed, but in my present mood I had eyes for nothing but the bizarre object

which glistened in a corner cupboard under the electric lights.

It took no excessive sensitiveness to beauty to make me literally gasp at the strange,

unearthly splendour of the alien, opulent phantasy that rested there on a purple velvet

cushion. Even now I can hardly describe what I saw, though it was clearly enough a sort of

tiara, as the description had said. It was tall in front, and with a very large and curiously

irregular periphery, as if designed for a head of almost freakishly elliptical outline. The material

seemed to be predominantly gold, though a weird lighter lustrousness hinted at some strange

alloy with an equally beautiful and scarcely identifiable metal. Its condition was almost perfect,

and one could have spent hours in studying the striking and puzzlingly untraditional designs—

some simply geometrical, and some plainly marine—chased or moulded in high relief on its

surface with a craftsmanship of incredible skill and grace.

The longer I looked, the more the thing fascinated me; and in this fascination there was a

curiously disturbing element hardly to be classified or accounted for. At first I decided that it

was the queer other-worldly quality of the art which made me uneasy. All other art objects I

had ever seen either belonged to some known racial or national stream, or else were

consciously modernistic defiances of every recognised stream. This tiara was neither. It

clearly belonged to some settled technique of infinite maturity and perfection, yet that

technique was utterly remote from any—Eastern or Western, ancient or modern—which I had

ever heard of or seen exemplified. It was as if the workmanship were that of another planet.

However, I soon saw that my uneasiness had a second and perhaps equally potent source

residing in the pictorial and mathematical suggestions of the strange designs. The patterns all

hinted of remote secrets and unimaginable abysses in time and space, and the monotonously

aquatic nature of the reliefs became almost sinister. Among these reliefs were fabulous

monsters of abhorrent grotesqueness and malignity—half ichthyic and half batrachian in

suggestion—which one could not dissociate from a certain haunting and uncomfortable sense

of pseudo-memory, as if they called up some image from deep cells and tissues whose

retentive functions are wholly primal and awesomely ancestral. At times I fancied that every

contour of these blasphemous fish-frogs was overflowing with the ultimate quintessence of

unknown and inhuman evil.

In odd contrast to the tiara‘s aspect was its brief and prosy history as related by Miss Tilton. It

had been pawned for a ridiculous sum at a shop in State Street in 1873, by a drunken

Innsmouth man shortly afterward killed in a brawl. The Society had acquired it directly from

the pawnbroker, at once giving it a display worthy of its quality. It was labelled as of probable

East-Indian or Indo-Chinese provenance, though the attribution was frankly tentative.

Miss Tilton, comparing all possible hypotheses regarding its origin and its presence in New

England, was inclined to believe that it formed part of some exotic pirate hoard discovered by

old Captain Obed Marsh. This view was surely not weakened by the insistent offers of

purchase at a high price which the Marshes began to make as soon as they knew of its

presence, and which they repeated to this day despite the Society‘s unvarying determination

not to sell.

As the good lady shewed me out of the building she made it clear that the pirate theory of the

Marsh fortune was a popular one among the intelligent people of the region. Her own attitude

toward shadowed Innsmouth—which she had never seen—was one of disgust at a

community slipping far down the cultural scale, and she assured me that the rumours of devil-

worship were partly justified by a peculiar secret cult which had gained force there and

engulfed all the orthodox churches.

It was called, she said, ―The Esoteric Order of Dagon‖, and was undoubtedly a debased,

quasi-pagan thing imported from the East a century before, at a time when the Innsmouth

fisheries seemed to be going barren. Its persistence among a simple people was quite natural

in view of the sudden and permanent return of abundantly fine fishing, and it soon came to be

the greatest influence on the town, replacing Freemasonry altogether and taking up

headquarters in the old Masonic Hall on New Church Green.

All this, to the pious Miss Tilton, formed an excellent reason for shunning the ancient town of

decay and desolation; but to me it was merely a fresh incentive. To my architectural and

historical anticipations was now added an acute anthropological zeal, and I could scarcely

sleep in my small room at the ―Y‖ as the night wore away.

II.

Shortly before ten the next morning I stood with one small valise in front of Hammond‘s Drug

Store in old Market Square waiting for the Innsmouth bus. As the hour for its arrival drew near

I noticed a general drift of the loungers to other places up the street, or to the Ideal Lunch

across the square. Evidently the ticket-agent had not exaggerated the dislike which local

people bore toward Innsmouth and its denizens. In a few moments a small motor-coach of

extreme decrepitude and dirty grey colour rattled down State Street, made a turn, and drew

up at the curb beside me. I felt immediately that it was the right one; a guess which the half-

illegible sign on the windshield—―Arkham-Innsmouth-Newb’port”—soon verified.

There were only three passengers—dark, unkempt men of sullen visage and somewhat

youthful cast—and when the vehicle stopped they clumsily shambled out and began walking

up State Street in a silent, almost furtive fashion. The driver also alighted, and I watched him

as he went into the drug store to make some purchase. This, I reflected, must be the Joe

Sargent mentioned by the ticket-agent; and even before I noticed any details there spread

over me a wave of spontaneous aversion which could be neither checked nor explained. It

suddenly struck me as very natural that the local people should not wish to ride on a bus

owned and driven by this man, or to visit any oftener than possible the habitat of such a man

and his kinsfolk.

When the driver came out of the store I looked at him more carefully and tried to determine

the source of my evil impression. He was a thin, stoop-shouldered man not much under six

feet tall, dressed in shabby blue civilian clothes and wearing a frayed grey golf cap. His age

was perhaps thirty-five, but the odd, deep creases in the sides of his neck made him seem

older when one did not study his dull, expressionless face. He had a narrow head, bulging,

watery blue eyes that seemed never to wink, a flat nose, a receding forehead and chin, and

singularly undeveloped ears. His long, thick lip and coarse-pored, greyish cheeks seemed

almost beardless except for some sparse yellow hairs that straggled and curled in irregular

patches; and in places the surface seemed queerly irregular, as if peeling from some

cutaneous disease. His hands were large and heavily veined, and had a very unusual

greyish-blue tinge. The fingers were strikingly short in proportion to the rest of the structure,

and seemed to have a tendency to curl closely into the huge palm. As he walked toward the

bus I observed his peculiarly shambling gait and saw that his feet were inordinately immense.

The more I studied them the more I wondered how he could buy any shoes to fit them.

A certain greasiness about the fellow increased my dislike. He was evidently given to working

or lounging around the fish docks, and carried with him much of their characteristic smell. Just

what foreign blood was in him I could not even guess. His oddities certainly did not look

Asiatic, Polynesian, Levantine, or negroid, yet I could see why the people found him alien. I

myself would have thought of biological degeneration rather than alienage.

I was sorry when I saw that there would be no other passengers on the bus. Somehow I did

not like the idea of riding alone with this driver. But as leaving time obviously approached I

conquered my qualms and followed the man aboard, extending him a dollar bill and

murmuring the single word ―Innsmouth‖. He looked curiously at me for a second as he

returned forty cents change without speaking. I took a seat far behind him, but on the same

side of the bus, since I wished to watch the shore during the journey.

At length the decrepit vehicle started with a jerk, and rattled noisily past the old brick buildings

of State Street amidst a cloud of vapour from the exhaust. Glancing at the people on the

sidewalks, I thought I detected in them a curious wish to avoid looking at the bus—or at least

a wish to avoid seeming to look at it. Then we turned to the left into High Street, where the

going was smoother; flying by stately old mansions of the early republic and still older colonial

farmhouses, passing the Lower Green and Parker River, and finally emerging into a long,

monotonous stretch of open shore country.

The day was warm and sunny, but the landscape of sand, sedge-grass, and stunted

shrubbery became more and more desolate as we proceeded. Out the window I could see the

blue water and the sandy line of Plum Island, and we presently drew very near the beach as

our narrow road veered off from the main highway to Rowley and Ipswich. There were no

visible houses, and I could tell by the state of the road that traffic was very light hereabouts.

The small, weather-worn telephone poles carried only two wires. Now and then we crossed

crude wooden bridges over tidal creeks that wound far inland and promoted the general

isolation of the region.

Once in a while I noticed dead stumps and crumbling foundation-walls above the drifting

sand, and recalled the old tradition quoted in one of the histories I had read, that this was

once a fertile and thickly settled countryside. The change, it was said, came simultaneously

with the Innsmouth epidemic of 1846, and was thought by simple folk to have a dark

connexion with hidden forces of evil. Actually, it was caused by the unwise cutting of

woodlands near the shore, which robbed the soil of its best protection and opened the way for

waves of wind-blown sand.

At last we lost sight of Plum Island and saw the vast expanse of the open Atlantic on our left.

Our narrow course began to climb steeply, and I felt a singular sense of disquiet in looking at

the lonely crest ahead where the rutted roadway met the sky. It was as if the bus were about

to keep on in its ascent, leaving the sane earth altogether and merging with the unknown

arcana of upper air and cryptical sky. The smell of the sea took on ominous implications, and

the silent driver‘s bent, rigid back and narrow head became more and more hateful. As I

looked at him I saw that the back of his head was almost as hairless as his face, having only

a few straggling yellow strands upon a grey scabrous surface.

Then we reached the crest and beheld the outspread valley beyond, where the Manuxet joins

the sea just north of the long line of cliffs that culminate in Kingsport Head and veer off toward

Cape Ann. On the far, misty horizon I could just make out the dizzy profile of the Head, topped

by the queer ancient house of which so many legends are told; but for the moment all my

attention was captured by the nearer panorama just below me. I had, I realised, come face to

face with rumour-shadowed Innsmouth.

It was a town of wide extent and dense construction, yet one with a portentous dearth of

visible life. From the tangle of chimney-pots scarcely a wisp of smoke came, and the three tall

steeples loomed stark and unpainted against the seaward horizon. One of them was

crumbling down at the top, and in that and another there were only black gaping holes where

clock-dials should have been. The vast huddle of sagging gambrel roofs and peaked gables

conveyed with offensive clearness the idea of wormy decay, and as we approached along the

now descending road I could see that many roofs had wholly caved in. There were some

large square Georgian houses, too, with hipped roofs, cupolas, and railed ―widow‘s walks‖.

These were mostly well back from the water, and one or two seemed to be in moderately

sound condition. Stretching inland from among them I saw the rusted, grass-grown line of the

abandoned railway, with leaning telegraph-poles now devoid of wires, and the half-obscured

lines of the old carriage roads to Rowley and Ipswich.

The decay was worst close to the waterfront, though in its very midst I could spy the white

belfry of a fairly well-preserved brick structure which looked like a small factory. The harbour,

long clogged with sand, was enclosed by an ancient stone breakwater; on which I could begin

to discern the minute forms of a few seated fishermen, and at whose end were what looked

like the foundations of a bygone lighthouse. A sandy tongue had formed inside this barrier,

and upon it I saw a few decrepit cabins, moored dories, and scattered lobster-pots. The only

deep water seemed to be where the river poured out past the belfried structure and turned

southward to join the ocean at the breakwater‘s end.

Here and there the ruins of wharves jutted out from the shore to end in indeterminate

rottenness, those farthest south seeming the most decayed. And far out at sea, despite a high

tide, I glimpsed a long, black line scarcely rising above the water yet carrying a suggestion of

odd latent malignancy. This, I knew, must be Devil Reef. As I looked, a subtle, curious sense

of beckoning seemed superadded to the grim repulsion; and oddly enough, I found this

overtone more disturbing than the primary impression.

We met no one on the road, but presently began to pass deserted farms in varying stages of

ruin. Then I noticed a few inhabited houses with rags stuffed in the broken windows and shells

and dead fish lying about the littered yards. Once or twice I saw listless-looking people

working in barren gardens or digging clams on the fishy-smelling beach below, and groups of

dirty, simian-visaged children playing around weed-grown doorsteps. Somehow these people

seemed more disquieting than the dismal buildings, for almost every one had certain

peculiarities of face and motions which I instinctively disliked without being able to define or

comprehend them. For a second I thought this typical physique suggested some picture I had

seen, perhaps in a book, under circumstances of particular horror or melancholy; but this

pseudo-recollection passed very quickly.

As the bus reached a lower level I began to catch the steady note of a waterfall through the

unnatural stillness. The leaning, unpainted houses grew thicker, lined both sides of the road,

and displayed more urban tendencies than did those we were leaving behind. The panorama

ahead had contracted to a street scene, and in spots I could see where a cobblestone

pavement and stretches of brick sidewalk had formerly existed. All the houses were

apparently deserted, and there were occasional gaps where tumbledown chimneys and cellar

walls told of buildings that had collapsed. Pervading everything was the most nauseous fishy

odour imaginable.

Soon cross streets and junctions began to appear; those on the left leading to shoreward

realms of unpaved squalor and decay, while those on the right shewed vistas of departed

grandeur. So far I had seen no people in the town, but there now came signs of a sparse

habitation—curtained windows here and there, and an occasional battered motor-car at the

curb. Pavement and sidewalks were increasingly well defined, and though most of the houses

were quite old—wood and brick structures of the early nineteenth century—they were

obviously kept fit for habitation. As an amateur antiquarian I almost lost my olfactory disgust

and my feeling of menace and repulsion amidst this rich, unaltered survival from the past.

But I was not to reach my destination without one very strong impression of poignantly

disagreeable quality. The bus had come to a sort of open concourse or radial point with

churches on two sides and the bedraggled remains of a circular green in the centre, and I was

looking at a large pillared hall on the right-hand junction ahead. The structure‘s once white

paint was now grey and peeling, and the black and gold sign on the pediment was so faded

that I could only with difficulty make out the words ―Esoteric Order of Dagon‖. This, then, was

the former Masonic Hall now given over to a degraded cult. As I strained to decipher this

inscription my notice was distracted by the raucous tones of a cracked bell across the street,

and I quickly turned to look out the window on my side of the coach.

The sound came from a squat-towered stone church of manifestly later date than most of the

houses, built in a clumsy Gothic fashion and having a disproportionately high basement with

shuttered windows. Though the hands of its clock were missing on the side I glimpsed, I knew

that those hoarse strokes were telling the hour of eleven. Then suddenly all thoughts of time

were blotted out by an onrushing image of sharp intensity and unaccountable horror which

had seized me before I knew what it really was. The door of the church basement was open,

revealing a rectangle of blackness inside. And as I looked, a certain object crossed or seemed

to cross that dark rectangle; burning into my brain a momentary conception of nightmare

which was all the more maddening because analysis could not shew a single nightmarish

quality in it.

It was a living object—the first except the driver that I had seen since entering the compact

part of the town—and had I been in a steadier mood I would have found nothing whatever of

terror in it. Clearly, as I realised a moment later, it was the pastor; clad in some peculiar

vestments doubtless introduced since the Order of Dagon had modified the ritual of the local

churches. The thing which had probably caught my first subconscious glance and supplied

the touch of bizarre horror was the tall tiara he wore; an almost exact duplicate of the one

Miss Tilton had shewn me the previous evening. This, acting on my imagination, had supplied

namelessly sinister qualities to the indeterminate face and robed, shambling form beneath it.

There was not, I soon decided, any reason why I should have felt that shuddering touch of

evil pseudo-memory. Was it not natural that a local mystery cult should adopt among its

regimentals an unique type of head-dress made familiar to the community in some strange

way—perhaps as treasure-trove?

A very thin sprinkling of repellent-looking youngish people now became visible on the

sidewalks—lone individuals, and silent knots of two or three. The lower floors of the crumbling

houses sometimes harboured small shops with dingy signs, and I noticed a parked truck or

two as we rattled along. The sound of waterfalls became more and more distinct, and

presently I saw a fairly deep river-gorge ahead, spanned by a wide, iron-railed highway bridge

beyond which a large square opened out. As we clanked over the bridge I looked out on both

sides and observed some factory buildings on the edge of the grassy bluff or part way down.

The water far below was very abundant, and I could see two vigorous sets of falls upstream

on my right and at least one downstream on my left. From this point the noise was quite

deafening. Then we rolled into the large semicircular square across the river and drew up on

the right-hand side in front of a tall, cupola-crowned building with remnants of yellow paint and

with a half-effaced sign proclaiming it to be the Gilman House.

I was glad to get out of that bus, and at once proceeded to check my valise in the shabby

hotel lobby. There was only one person in sight—an elderly man without what I had come to

call the ―Innsmouth look‖—and I decided not to ask him any of the questions which bothered

me; remembering that odd things had been noticed in this hotel. Instead, I strolled out on the

square, from which the bus had already gone, and studied the scene minutely and

appraisingly.

One side of the cobblestoned open space was the straight line of the river; the other was a

semicircle of slant-roofed brick buildings of about the 1800 period, from which several streets

radiated away to the southeast, south, and southwest. Lamps were depressingly few and

small—all low-powered incandescents—and I was glad that my plans called for departure

before dark, even though I knew the moon would be bright. The buildings were all in fair

condition, and included perhaps a dozen shops in current operation; of which one was a

grocery of the First National chain, others a dismal restaurant, a drug store, and a wholesale

fish-dealer‘s office, and still another, at the eastern extremity of the square near the river, an

office of the town‘s only industry—the Marsh Refining Company. There were perhaps ten

people visible, and four or five automobiles and motor trucks stood scattered about. I did not

need to be told that this was the civic centre of Innsmouth. Eastward I could catch blue

glimpses of the harbour, against which rose the decaying remains of three once beautiful

Georgian steeples. And toward the shore on the opposite bank of the river I saw the white

belfry surmounting what I took to be the Marsh refinery.

For some reason or other I chose to make my first inquiries at the chain grocery, whose

personnel was not likely to be native to Innsmouth. I found a solitary boy of about seventeen

in charge, and was pleased to note the brightness and affability which promised cheerful

information. He seemed exceptionally eager to talk, and I soon gathered that he did not like

the place, its fishy smell, or its furtive people. A word with any outsider was a relief to him. He

hailed from Arkham, boarded with a family who came from Ipswich, and went back home

whenever he got a moment off. His family did not like him to work in Innsmouth, but the chain

had transferred him there and he did not wish to give up his job.

There was, he said, no public library or chamber of commerce in Innsmouth, but I could

probably find my way about. The street I had come down was Federal. West of that were the

fine old residence streets—Broad, Washington, Lafayette, and Adams—and east of it were

the shoreward slums. It was in these slums—along Main Street—that I would find the old

Georgian churches, but they were all long abandoned. It would be well not to make oneself

too conspicuous in such neighbourhoods—especially north of the river—since the people

were sullen and hostile. Some strangers had even disappeared.

Certain spots were almost forbidden territory, as he had learned at considerable cost. One

must not, for example, linger much around the Marsh refinery, or around any of the still used

churches, or around the pillared Order of Dagon Hall at New Church Green. Those churches

were very odd—all violently disavowed by their respective denominations elsewhere, and

apparently using the queerest kind of ceremonials and clerical vestments. Their creeds were

heterodox and mysterious, involving hints of certain marvellous transformations leading to

bodily immortality—of a sort—on this earth. The youth‘s own pastor—Dr. Wallace of Asbury

M. E. Church in Arkham—had gravely urged him not to join any church in Innsmouth.

As for the Innsmouth people—the youth hardly knew what to make of them. They were as

furtive and seldom seen as animals that live in burrows, and one could hardly imagine how

they passed the time apart from their desultory fishing. Perhaps—judging from the quantities

of bootleg liquor they consumed—they lay for most of the daylight hours in an alcoholic

stupor. They seemed sullenly banded together in some sort of fellowship and understanding—

despising the world as if they had access to other and preferable spheres of entity. Their

appearance—especially those staring, unwinking eyes which one never saw shut—was

certainly shocking enough; and their voices were disgusting. It was awful to hear them

chanting in their churches at night, and especially during their main festivals or revivals, which

fell twice a year on April 30th and October 31st.

They were very fond of the water, and swam a great deal in both river and harbour. Swimming

races out to Devil Reef were very common, and everyone in sight seemed well able to share

in this arduous sport. When one came to think of it, it was generally only rather young people

who were seen about in public, and of these the oldest were apt to be the most tainted-

looking. When exceptions did occur, they were mostly persons with no trace of aberrancy, like

the old clerk at the hotel. One wondered what became of the bulk of the older folk, and

whether the ―Innsmouth look‖ were not a strange and insidious disease-phenomenon which

increased its hold as years advanced.

Only a very rare affliction, of course, could bring about such vast and radical anatomical

changes in a single individual after maturity—changes involving osseous factors as basic as

the shape of the skull—but then, even this aspect was no more baffling and unheard-of than

the visible features of the malady as a whole. It would be hard, the youth implied, to form any

real conclusions regarding such a matter; since one never came to know the natives

personally no matter how long one might live in Innsmouth.

The youth was certain that many specimens even worse than the worst visible ones were

kept locked indoors in some places. People sometimes heard the queerest kind of sounds.

The tottering waterfront hovels north of the river were reputedly connected by hidden tunnels,

being thus a veritable warren of unseen abnormalities. What kind of foreign blood—if any—

these beings had, it was impossible to tell. They sometimes kept certain especially repulsive

characters out of sight when government agents and others from the outside world came to

town.

It would be of no use, my informant said, to ask the natives anything about the place. The

only one who would talk was a very aged but normal-looking man who lived at the poorhouse

on the north rim of the town and spent his time walking about or lounging around the fire

station. This hoary character, Zadok Allen, was ninety-six years old and somewhat touched in

the head, besides being the town drunkard. He was a strange, furtive creature who constantly

looked over his shoulder as if afraid of something, and when sober could not be persuaded to

talk at all with strangers. He was, however, unable to resist any offer of his favourite poison;

and once drunk would furnish the most astonishing fragments of whispered reminiscence.

After all, though, little useful data could be gained from him; since his stories were all insane,

incomplete hints of impossible marvels and horrors which could have no source save in his

own disordered fancy. Nobody ever believed him, but the natives did not like him to drink and

talk with strangers; and it was not always safe to be seen questioning him. It was probably

from him that some of the wildest popular whispers and delusions were derived.

Several non-native residents had reported monstrous glimpses from time to time, but between

old Zadok‘s tales and the malformed denizens it was no wonder such illusions were current.

None of the non-natives ever stayed out late at night, there being a widespread impression

that it was not wise to do so. Besides, the streets were loathsomely dark.

As for business—the abundance of fish was certainly almost uncanny, but the natives were

taking less and less advantage of it. Moreover, prices were falling and competition was

growing. Of course the town‘s real business was the refinery, whose commercial office was on

the square only a few doors east of where we stood. Old Man Marsh was never seen, but

sometimes went to the works in a closed, curtained car.

There were all sorts of rumours about how Marsh had come to look. He had once been a

great dandy, and people said he still wore the frock-coated finery of the Edwardian age,

curiously adapted to certain deformities. His sons had formerly conducted the office in the

square, but latterly they had been keeping out of sight a good deal and leaving the brunt of

affairs to the younger generation. The sons and their sisters had come to look very queer,

especially the elder ones; and it was said that their health was failing.

One of the Marsh daughters was a repellent, reptilian-looking woman who wore an excess of

weird jewellery clearly of the same exotic tradition as that to which the strange tiara belonged.

My informant had noticed it many times, and had heard it spoken of as coming from some

secret hoard, either of pirates or of daemons. The clergymen—or priests, or whatever they

were called nowadays—also wore this kind of ornament as a head-dress; but one seldom

caught glimpses of them. Other specimens the youth had not seen, though many were

rumoured to exist around Innsmouth.

The Marshes, together with the other three gently bred families of the town—the Waites, the

Gilmans, and the Eliots—were all very retiring. They lived in immense houses along

Washington Street, and several were reputed to harbour in concealment certain living kinsfolk

whose personal aspect forbade public view, and whose deaths had been reported and

recorded.

Warning me that many of the street signs were down, the youth drew for my benefit a rough

but ample and painstaking sketch map of the town‘s salient features. After a moment‘s study I

felt sure that it would be of great help, and pocketed it with profuse thanks. Disliking the

dinginess of the single restaurant I had seen, I bought a fair supply of cheese crackers and

ginger wafers to serve as a lunch later on. My programme, I decided, would be to thread the

principal streets, talk with any non-natives I might encounter, and catch the eight o‘clock

coach for Arkham. The town, I could see, formed a significant and exaggerated example of

communal decay; but being no sociologist I would limit my serious observations to the field of

architecture.

Thus I began my systematic though half-bewildered tour of Innsmouth‘s narrow, shadow-

blighted ways. Crossing the bridge and turning toward the roar of the lower falls, I passed

close to the Marsh refinery, which seemed oddly free from the noise of industry. This building

stood on the steep river bluff near a bridge and an open confluence of streets which I took to

be the earliest civic centre, displaced after the Revolution by the present Town Square.

Re-crossing the gorge on the Main Street bridge, I struck a region of utter desertion which

somehow made me shudder. Collapsing huddles of gambrel roofs formed a jagged and

fantastic skyline, above which rose the ghoulish, decapitated steeple of an ancient church.

Some houses along Main Street were tenanted, but most were tightly boarded up. Down

unpaved side streets I saw the black, gaping windows of deserted hovels, many of which

leaned at perilous and incredible angles through the sinking of part of the foundations. Those

windows stared so spectrally that it took courage to turn eastward toward the waterfront.

Certainly, the terror of a deserted house swells in geometrical rather than arithmetical

progression as houses multiply to form a city of stark desolation. The sight of such endless

avenues of fishy-eyed vacancy and death, and the thought of such linked infinities of black,

brooding compartments given over to cobwebs and memories and the conqueror worm, start

up vestigial fears and aversions that not even the stoutest philosophy can disperse.

Fish Street was as deserted as Main, though it differed in having many brick and stone

warehouses still in excellent shape. Water Street was almost its duplicate, save that there

were great seaward gaps where wharves had been. Not a living thing did I see, except for the

scattered fishermen on the distant breakwater, and not a sound did I hear save the lapping of

the harbour tides and the roar of the falls in the Manuxet. The town was getting more and

more on my nerves, and I looked behind me furtively as I picked my way back over the

tottering Water Street bridge. The Fish Street bridge, according to the sketch, was in ruins.

North of the river there were traces of squalid life—active fish-packing houses in Water Street,

smoking chimneys and patched roofs here and there, occasional sounds from indeterminate

sources, and infrequent shambling forms in the dismal streets and unpaved lanes—but I

seemed to find this even more oppressive than the southerly desertion. For one thing, the

people were more hideous and abnormal than those near the centre of the town; so that I was

several times evilly reminded of something utterly fantastic which I could not quite place.

Undoubtedly the alien strain in the Innsmouth folk was stronger here than farther inland—

unless, indeed, the ―Innsmouth look‖ were a disease rather than a blood strain, in which case

this district might be held to harbour the more advanced cases.

One detail that annoyed me was the distribution of the few faint sounds I heard. They ought

naturally to have come wholly from the visibly inhabited houses, yet in reality were often

strongest inside the most rigidly boarded-up facades. There were creakings, scurryings, and

hoarse doubtful noises; and I thought uncomfortably about the hidden tunnels suggested by

the grocery boy. Suddenly I found myself wondering what the voices of those denizens would

be like. I had heard no speech so far in this quarter, and was unaccountably anxious not to do

so.

Pausing only long enough to look at two fine but ruinous old churches at Main and Church

Streets, I hastened out of that vile waterfront slum. My next logical goal was New Church

Green, but somehow or other I could not bear to repass the church in whose basement I had

glimpsed the inexplicably frightening form of that strangely diademed priest or pastor.

Besides, the grocery youth had told me that the churches, as well as the Order of Dagon Hall,

were not advisable neighbourhoods for strangers.

Accordingly I kept north along Main to Martin, then turning inland, crossing Federal Street

safely north of the Green, and entering the decayed patrician neighbourhood of northern

Broad, Washington, Lafayette, and Adams Streets. Though these stately old avenues were ill-

surfaced and unkempt, their elm-shaded dignity had not entirely departed. Mansion after

mansion claimed my gaze, most of them decrepit and boarded up amidst neglected grounds,

but one or two in each street shewing signs of occupancy. In Washington Street there was a

row of four or five in excellent repair and with finely tended lawns and gardens. The most

sumptuous of these—with wide terraced parterres extending back the whole way to Lafayette

Street—I took to be the home of Old Man Marsh, the afflicted refinery owner.

In all these streets no living thing was visible, and I wondered at the complete absense of cats

and dogs from Innsmouth. Another thing which puzzled and disturbed me, even in some of

the best-preserved mansions, was the tightly shuttered condition of many third-story and attic

windows. Furtiveness and secretiveness seemed universal in this hushed city of alienage and

death, and I could not escape the sensation of being watched from ambush on every hand by

sly, staring eyes that never shut.

I shivered as the cracked stroke of three sounded from a belfry on my left. Too well did I recall

the squat church from which those notes came. Following Washington Street toward the river,

I now faced a new zone of former industry and commerce; noting the ruins of a factory ahead,

and seeing others, with the traces of an old railway station and covered railway bridge

beyond, up the gorge on my right.

The uncertain bridge now before me was posted with a warning sign, but I took the risk and

crossed again to the south bank where traces of life reappeared. Furtive, shambling creatures

stared cryptically in my direction, and more normal faces eyed me coldly and curiously.

Innsmouth was rapidly becoming intolerable, and I turned down Paine Street toward the

Square in the hope of getting some vehicle to take me to Arkham before the still-distant

starting-time of that sinister bus.

It was then that I saw the tumbledown fire station on my left, and noticed the red-faced,

bushy-bearded, watery-eyed old man in nondescript rags who sat on a bench in front of it

talking with a pair of unkempt but not abnormal-looking firemen. This, of course, must be

Zadok Allen, the half-crazed, liquorish nonagenarian whose tales of old Innsmouth and its

shadow were so hideous and incredible.

III.

It must have been some imp of the perverse—or some sardonic pull from dark, hidden

sources—which made me change my plans as I did. I had long before resolved to limit my

observations to architecture alone, and I was even then hurrying toward the Square in an

effort to get quick transportation out of this festering city of death and decay; but the sight of

old Zadok Allen set up new currents in my mind and made me slacken my pace uncertainly.

I had been assured that the old man could do nothing but hint at wild, disjointed, and

incredible legends, and I had been warned that the natives made it unsafe to be seen talking

to him; yet the thought of this aged witness to the town‘s decay, with memories going back to

the early days of ships and factories, was a lure that no amount of reason could make me

resist. After all, the strangest and maddest of myths are often merely symbols or allegories

based upon truth—and old Zadok must have seen everything which went on around

Innsmouth for the last ninety years. Curiosity flared up beyond sense and caution, and in my

youthful egotism I fancied I might be able to sift a nucleus of real history from the confused,

extravagant outpouring I would probably extract with the aid of raw whiskey.

I knew that I could not accost him then and there, for the firemen would surely notice and

object. Instead, I reflected, I would prepare by getting some bootleg liquor at a place where

the grocery boy had told me it was plentiful. Then I would loaf near the fire station in apparent

casualness, and fall in with old Zadok after he had started on one of his frequent rambles. The

youth said that he was very restless, seldom sitting around the station for more than an hour

or two at a time.

A quart bottle of whiskey was easily, though not cheaply, obtained in the rear of a dingy

variety-store just off the Square in Eliot Street. The dirty-looking fellow who waited on me had

a touch of the staring ―Innsmouth look‖, but was quite civil in his way; being perhaps used to

the custom of such convivial strangers—truckmen, gold-buyers, and the like—as were

occasionally in town.

Reëntering the Square I saw that luck was with me; for—shuffling out of Paine Street around

the corner of the Gilman House—I glimpsed nothing less than the tall, lean, tattered form of

old Zadok Allen himself. In accordance with my plan, I attracted his attention by brandishing

my newly purchased bottle; and soon realised that he had begun to shuffle wistfully after me

as I turned into Waite Street on my way to the most deserted region I could think of.

I was steering my course by the map the grocery boy had prepared, and was aiming for the

wholly abandoned stretch of southern waterfront which I had previously visited. The only

people in sight there had been the fishermen on the distant breakwater; and by going a few

squares south I could get beyond the range of these, finding a pair of seats on some

abandoned wharf and being free to question old Zadok unobserved for an indefinite time.

Before I reached Main Street I could hear a faint and wheezy ―Hey, Mister!‖ behind me, and I

presently allowed the old man to catch up and take copious pulls from the quart bottle.

I began putting out feelers as we walked along to Water Street and turned southward amidst

the omnipresent desolation and crazily tilted ruins, but found that the aged tongue did not

loosen as quickly as I had expected. At length I saw a grass-grown opening toward the sea

between crumbling brick walls, with the weedy length of an earth-and-masonry wharf

projecting beyond. Piles of moss-covered stones near the water promised tolerable seats,

and the scene was sheltered from all possible view by a ruined warehouse on the north. Here,

I thought, was the ideal place for a long secret colloquy; so I guided my companion down the

lane and picked out spots to sit in among the mossy stones. The air of death and desertion

was ghoulish, and the smell of fish almost insufferable; but I was resolved to let nothing deter

me.

About four hours remained for conversation if I were to catch the eight o‘clock coach for

Arkham, and I began to dole out more liquor to the ancient tippler; meanwhile eating my own

frugal lunch. In my donations I was careful not to overshoot the mark, for I did not wish

Zadok‘s vinous garrulousness to pass into a stupor. After an hour his furtive taciturnity shewed

signs of disappearing, but much to my disappointment he still sidetracked my questions about

Innsmouth and its shadow-haunted past. He would babble of current topics, revealing a wide

acquaintance with newspapers and a great tendency to philosophise in a sententious village

fashion.

Toward the end of the second hour I feared my quart of whiskey would not be enough to

produce results, and was wondering whether I had better leave old Zadok and go back for

more. Just then, however, chance made the opening which my questions had been unable to

make; and the wheezing ancient‘s rambling took a turn that caused me to lean forward and

listen alertly. My back was toward the fishy-smelling sea, but he was facing it, and something

or other had caused his wandering gaze to light on the low, distant line of Devil Reef, then

shewing plainly and almost fascinatingly above the waves. The sight seemed to displease

him, for he began a series of weak curses which ended in a confidential whisper and a

knowing leer. He bent toward me, took hold of my coat lapel, and hissed out some hints that

could not be mistaken.

―Thar‘s whar it all begun—that cursed place of all wickedness whar the deep water starts.

Gate o‘ hell—sheer drop daown to a bottom no saoundin‘-line kin tech. Ol‘ Cap‘n Obed done

it—him that faound aout more‘n was good fer him in the Saouth Sea islands.

―Everybody was in a bad way them days. Trade fallin‘ off, mills losin‘ business—even the new

ones—an‘ the best of our menfolks kilt a-privateerin‘ in the War of 1812 or lost with the Elizy

brig an‘ the Ranger snow—both of ‘em Gilman venters. Obed Marsh he had three ships

afloat—brigantine Columby, brig Hetty, an‘ barque Sumatry Queen. He was the only one as

kep‘ on with the East-Injy an‘ Pacific trade, though Esdras Martin‘s barkentine Malay Pride

made a venter as late as ‘twenty-eight.

―Never was nobody like Cap‘n Obed—old limb o‘ Satan! Heh, heh! I kin mind him a-tellin‘

abaout furren parts, an‘ callin‘ all the folks stupid fer goin‘ to Christian meetin‘ an‘ bearin‘ their

burdens meek an‘ lowly. Says they‘d orter git better gods like some o‘ the folks in the Injies—

gods as ud bring ‘em good fishin‘ in return for their sacrifices, an‘ ud reely answer folks‘s

prayers.

―Matt Eliot, his fust mate, talked a lot, too, only he was agin‘ folks‘s doin‘ any heathen things.

Told abaout an island east of Otaheité whar they was a lot o‘ stone ruins older‘n anybody

knew anything abaout, kind o‘ like them on Ponape, in the Carolines, but with carvin‘s of faces

that looked like the big statues on Easter Island. They was a little volcanic island near thar,

too, whar they was other ruins with diff‘rent carvin‘s—ruins all wore away like they‘d ben

under the sea onct, an‘ with picters of awful monsters all over ‘em.

―Wal, Sir, Matt he says the natives araound thar had all the fish they cud ketch, an‘ sported

bracelets an‘ armlets an‘ head rigs made aout of a queer kind o‘ gold an‘ covered with picters

o‘ monsters jest like the ones carved over the ruins on the little island—sorter fish-like frogs or

frog-like fishes that was drawed in all kinds o‘ positions like they was human bein‘s. Nobody

cud git aout o‘ them whar they got all the stuff, an‘ all the other natives wondered haow they

managed to find fish in plenty even when the very next islands had lean pickin‘s. Matt he got

to wonderin‘ too, an‘ so did Cap‘n Obed. Obed he notices, besides, that lots of the han‘some

young folks ud drop aout o‘ sight fer good from year to year, an‘ that they wa‘n‘t many old

folks araound. Also, he thinks some of the folks looks durned queer even fer Kanakys.

―It took Obed to git the truth aout o‘ them heathen. I dun‘t know haow he done it, but he begun

by tradin‘ fer the gold-like things they wore. Ast ‘em whar they come from, an‘ ef they cud git

more, an‘ finally wormed the story aout o‘ the old chief—Walakea, they called him. Nobody

but Obed ud ever a believed the old yeller devil, but the Cap‘n cud read folks like they was

books. Heh, heh! Nobody never believes me naow when I tell ‘em, an‘ I dun‘t s‘pose you will,

young feller—though come to look at ye, ye hev kind o‘ got them sharp-readin‘ eyes like Obed

had.‖

The old man‘s whisper grew fainter, and I found myself shuddering at the terrible and sincere

portentousness of his intonation, even though I knew his tale could be nothing but drunken

phantasy.

―Wal, Sir, Obed he larnt that they‘s things on this arth as most folks never heerd abaout—an‘

wouldn‘t believe ef they did hear. It seems these Kanakys was sacrificin‘ heaps o‘ their young

men an‘ maidens to some kind o‘ god-things that lived under the sea, an‘ gittin‘ all kinds o‘

favour in return. They met the things on the little islet with the queer ruins, an‘ it seems them

awful picters o‘ frog-fish monsters was supposed to be picters o‘ these things. Mebbe they

was the kind o‘ critters as got all the mermaid stories an‘ sech started. They had all kinds o‘

cities on the sea-bottom, an‘ this island was heaved up from thar. Seems they was some of

the things alive in the stone buildin‘s when the island come up sudden to the surface. That‘s

haow the Kanakys got wind they was daown thar. Made sign-talk as soon as they got over

bein‘ skeert, an‘ pieced up a bargain afore long.

―Them things liked human sacrifices. Had had ‘em ages afore, but lost track o‘ the upper

world arter a time. What they done to the victims it ain‘t fer me to say, an‘ I guess Obed wa‘n‘t

none too sharp abaout askin‘. But it was all right with the heathens, because they‘d ben havin‘

a hard time an‘ was desp‘rate abaout everything. They give a sarten number o‘ young folks to

the sea-things twict every year—May-Eve an‘ Hallowe‘en—reg‘lar as cud be. Also give some

o‘ the carved knick-knacks they made. What the things agreed to give in return was plenty o‘

fish—they druv ‘em in from all over the sea—an‘ a few gold-like things naow an‘ then.

―Wal, as I says, the natives met the things on the little volcanic islet—goin‘ thar in canoes with

the sacrifices et cet‘ry, and bringin‘ back any of the gold-like jools as was comin‘ to ‘em. At fust

the things didn‘t never go onto the main island, but arter a time they come to want to. Seems

they hankered arter mixin‘ with the folks, an‘ havin‘ j‘int ceremonies on the big days—May-Eve

an‘ Hallowe‘en. Ye see, they was able to live both in an‘ aout o‘ water—what they call

amphibians, I guess. The Kanakys told ‘em as haow folks from the other islands might wanta

wipe ‘em aout ef they got wind o‘ their bein‘ thar, but they says they dun‘t keer much, because

they cud wipe aout the hull brood o‘ humans ef they was willin‘ to bother—that is, any as

didn‘t hev sarten signs sech as was used onct by the lost Old Ones, whoever they was. But

not wantin‘ to bother, they‘d lay low when anybody visited the island.

―When it come to matin‘ with them toad-lookin‘ fishes, the Kanakys kind o‘ balked, but finally

they larnt something as put a new face on the matter. Seems that human folks has got a kind

o‘ relation to sech water-beasts—that everything alive come aout o‘ the water onct, an‘ only

needs a little change to go back agin. Them things told the Kanakys that ef they mixed bloods

there‘d be children as ud look human at fust, but later turn more‘n more like the things, till

finally they‘d take to the water an‘ jine the main lot o‘ things daown thar. An‘ this is the

important part, young feller—them as turned into fish things an‘ went into the water wouldn’t

never die. Them things never died excep‘ they was kilt violent.

―Wal, Sir, it seems by the time Obed knowed them islanders they was all full o‘ fish blood from

them deep-water things. When they got old an‘ begun to shew it, they was kep‘ hid until they

felt like takin‘ to the water an‘ quittin‘ the place. Some was more teched than others, an‘ some

never did change quite enough to take to the water; but mostly they turned aout jest the way

them things said. Them as was born more like the things changed arly, but them as was

nearly human sometimes stayed on the island till they was past seventy, though they‘d usually

go daown under fer trial trips afore that. Folks as had took to the water gen‘rally come back a

good deal to visit, so‘s a man ud often be a-talkin‘ to his own five-times-great-grandfather,

who‘d left the dry land a couple o‘ hundred years or so afore.

―Everybody got aout o‘ the idee o‘ dyin‘—excep‘ in canoe wars with the other islanders, or as

sacrifices to the sea-gods daown below, or from snake-bite or plague or sharp gallopin‘

ailments or somethin‘ afore they cud take to the water—but simply looked forrad to a kind o‘

change that wa‘n‘t a bit horrible arter a while. They thought what they‘d got was well wuth all

they‘d had to give up—an‘ I guess Obed kind o‘ come to think the same hisself when he‘d

chewed over old Walakea‘s story a bit. Walakea, though, was one of the few as hadn‘t got

none of the fish blood—bein‘ of a royal line that intermarried with royal lines on other islands.

―Walakea he shewed Obed a lot o‘ rites an‘ incantations as had to do with the sea-things, an‘

let him see some o‘ the folks in the village as had changed a lot from human shape.

Somehaow or other, though, he never would let him see one of the reg‘lar things from right

aout o‘ the water. In the end he give him a funny kind o‘ thingumajig made aout o‘ lead or

something, that he said ud bring up the fish things from any place in the water whar they

might be a nest of ‘em. The idee was to drop it daown with the right kind o‘ prayers an‘ sech.

Walakea allaowed as the things was scattered all over the world, so‘s anybody that looked

abaout cud find a nest an‘ bring ‘em up ef they was wanted.

―Matt he didn‘t like this business at all, an‘ wanted Obed shud keep away from the island; but

the Cap‘n was sharp fer gain, an‘ faound he cud git them gold-like things so cheap it ud pay

him to make a specialty of ‘em. Things went on that way fer years, an‘ Obed got enough o‘

that gold-like stuff to make him start the refinery in Waite‘s old run-daown fullin‘ mill. He didn‘t

dass sell the pieces like they was, fer folks ud be all the time askin‘ questions. All the same

his crews ud git a piece an‘ dispose of it naow and then, even though they was swore to keep

quiet; an‘ he let his women-folks wear some o‘ the pieces as was more human-like than most.

―Wal, come abaout ‘thutty-eight—when I was seven year‘ old—Obed he faound the island

people all wiped aout between v‘yages. Seems the other islanders had got wind o‘ what was

goin‘ on, an‘ had took matters into their own hands. S‘pose they musta had, arter all, them old

magic signs as the sea-things says was the only things they was afeard of. No tellin‘ what any

o‘ them Kanakys will chance to git a holt of when the sea-bottom throws up some island with

ruins older‘n the deluge. Pious cusses, these was—they didn‘t leave nothin‘ standin‘ on either

the main island or the little volcanic islet excep‘ what parts of the ruins was too big to knock

daown. In some places they was little stones strewed abaout—like charms—with somethin‘

on ‘em like what ye call a swastika naowadays. Prob‘ly them was the Old Ones‘ signs. Folks

all wiped aout, no trace o‘ no gold-like things, an‘ none o‘ the nearby Kanakys ud breathe a

word abaout the matter. Wouldn‘t even admit they‘d ever ben any people on that island.

―That naturally hit Obed pretty hard, seein‘ as his normal trade was doin‘ very poor. It hit the

whole of Innsmouth, too, because in seafarin‘ days what profited the master of a ship gen‘lly

profited the crew proportionate. Most o‘ the folks araound the taown took the hard times kind

o‘ sheep-like an‘ resigned, but they was in bad shape because the fishin‘ was peterin‘ aout an‘

the mills wa‘n‘t doin‘ none too well.

―Then‘s the time Obed he begun a-cursin‘ at the folks fer bein‘ dull sheep an‘ prayin‘ to a

Christian heaven as didn‘t help ‘em none. He told ‘em he‘d knowed of folks as prayed to gods

that give somethin‘ ye reely need, an‘ says ef a good bunch o‘ men ud stand by him, he cud

mebbe git a holt o‘ sarten paowers as ud bring plenty o‘ fish an‘ quite a bit o‘ gold. O‘ course

them as sarved on the Sumatry Queen an‘ seed the island knowed what he meant, an‘ wa‘n‘t

none too anxious to git clost to sea-things like they‘d heerd tell on, but them as didn‘t know

what ‘twas all abaout got kind o‘ swayed by what Obed had to say, an‘ begun to ast him what

he cud do to set ‘em on the way to the faith as ud bring ‘em results.‖

Here the old man faltered, mumbled, and lapsed into a moody and apprehensive silence;

glancing nervously over his shoulder and then turning back to stare fascinatedly at the distant

black reef. When I spoke to him he did not answer, so I knew I would have to let him finish the

bottle. The insane yarn I was hearing interested me profoundly, for I fancied there was

contained within it a sort of crude allegory based upon the strangenesses of Innsmouth and

elaborated by an imagination at once creative and full of scraps of exotic legend. Not for a

moment did I believe that the tale had any really substantial foundation; but none the less the

account held a hint of genuine terror, if only because it brought in references to strange jewels

clearly akin to the malign tiara I had seen at Newburyport. Perhaps the ornaments had, after

all, come from some strange island; and possibly the wild stories were lies of the bygone

Obed himself rather than of this antique toper.

I handed Zadok the bottle, and he drained it to the last drop. It was curious how he could

stand so much whiskey, for not even a trace of thickness had come into his high, wheezy

voice. He licked the nose of the bottle and slipped it into his pocket, then beginning to nod

and whisper softly to himself. I bent close to catch any articulate words he might utter, and

thought I saw a sardonic smile behind the stained, bushy whiskers. Yes—he was really

forming words, and I could grasp a fair proportion of them.

―Poor Matt—Matt he allus was agin‘ it—tried to line up the folks on his side, an‘ had long talks

with the preachers—no use—they run the Congregational parson aout o‘ taown, an‘ the

Methodist feller quit—never did see Resolved Babcock, the Baptist parson, agin—Wrath o‘

Jehovy—I was a mighty little critter, but I heerd what I heerd an‘ seen what I seen—Dagon an‘

Ashtoreth—Belial an‘ Beëlzebub—Golden Caff an‘ the idols o‘ Canaan an‘ the Philistines—

Babylonish abominations—Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin—”

He stopped again, and from the look in his watery blue eyes I feared he was close to a stupor

after all. But when I gently shook his shoulder he turned on me with astonishing alertness and

snapped out some more obscure phrases.

―Dun‘t believe me, hey? Heh, heh, heh—then jest tell me, young feller, why Cap‘n Obed an‘

twenty odd other folks used to row aout to Devil Reef in the dead o‘ night an‘ chant things so

laoud ye cud hear ‘em all over taown when the wind was right? Tell me that, hey? An‘ tell me

why Obed was allus droppin‘ heavy things daown into the deep water t‘other side o‘ the reef

whar the bottom shoots daown like a cliff lower‘n ye kin saound? Tell me what he done with

that funny-shaped lead thingumajig as Walakea give him? Hey, boy? An‘ what did they all

haowl on May-Eve, an‘ agin the next Hallowe‘en? An‘ why‘d the new church parsons—fellers

as used to be sailors—wear them queer robes an‘ cover theirselves with them gold-like things

Obed brung? Hey?‖

The watery blue eyes were almost savage and maniacal now, and the dirty white beard

bristled electrically. Old Zadok probably saw me shrink back, for he had begun to cackle evilly.

―Heh, heh, heh, heh! Beginnin‘ to see, hey? Mebbe ye‘d like to a ben me in them days, when I

seed things at night aout to sea from the cupalo top o‘ my haouse. Oh, I kin tell ye, little

pitchers hev big ears, an‘ I wa‘n‘t missin‘ nothin‘ o‘ what was gossiped abaout Cap‘n Obed an‘

the folks aout to the reef! Heh, heh, heh! Haow abaout the night I took my pa‘s ship‘s glass up

to the cupalo an‘ seed the reef a-bristlin‘ thick with shapes that dove off quick soon‘s the moon

riz? Obed an‘ the folks was in a dory, but them shapes dove off the far side into the deep

water an‘ never come up. . . . Haow‘d ye like to be a little shaver alone up in a cupalo a-

watchin‘ shapes as wa’n’t human shapes? . . . Hey? . . . Heh, heh, heh, heh. . . .‖

The old man was getting hysterical, and I began to shiver with a nameless alarm. He laid a

gnarled claw on my shoulder, and it seemed to me that its shaking was not altogether that of

mirth.

―S‘pose one night ye seed somethin‘ heavy heaved offen Obed‘s dory beyond the reef, an‘

then larned nex‘ day a young feller was missin‘ from home? Hey? Did anybody ever see hide

or hair o‘ Hiram Gilman agin? Did they? An‘ Nick Pierce, an‘ Luelly Waite, an‘ Adoniram

Saouthwick, an‘ Henry Garrison? Hey? Heh, heh, heh, heh. . . . Shapes talkin‘ sign language

with their hands . . . them as had reel hands. . . .

―Wal, Sir, that was the time Obed begun to git on his feet agin. Folks see his three darters a-

wearin‘ gold-like things as nobody‘d never see on ‘em afore, an‘ smoke started comin‘ aout o‘

the refin‘ry chimbly. Other folks were prosp‘rin‘, too—fish begun to swarm into the harbour fit

to kill, an‘ heaven knows what sized cargoes we begun to ship aout to Newb‘ryport, Arkham,

an‘ Boston. ‘Twas then Obed got the ol‘ branch railrud put through. Some Kingsport fishermen

heerd abaout the ketch an‘ come up in sloops, but they was all lost. Nobody never see ‘em

agin. An‘ jest then our folks organised the Esoteric Order o‘ Dagon, an‘ bought Masonic Hall

offen Calvary Commandery for it . . . heh, heh, heh! Matt Eliot was a Mason an‘ agin‘ the

sellin‘, but he dropped aout o‘ sight jest then.

―Remember, I ain‘t sayin‘ Obed was set on hevin‘ things jest like they was on that Kanaky isle.

I dun‘t think he aimed at fust to do no mixin‘, nor raise no younguns to take to the water an‘

turn into fishes with eternal life. He wanted them gold things, an‘ was willin‘ to pay heavy, an‘ I

guess the others was satisfied fer a while. . . .

―Come in ‘forty-six the taown done some lookin‘ an‘ thinkin‘ fer itself. Too many folks missin‘—

too much wild preachin‘ at meetin‘ of a Sunday—too much talk abaout that reef. I guess I

done a bit by tellin‘ Selectman Mowry what I see from the cupalo. They was a party one night

as follered Obed‘s craowd aout to the reef, an‘ I heerd shots betwixt the dories. Nex‘ day

Obed an‘ thutty-two others was in gaol, with everbody a-wonderin‘ jest what was afoot an‘ jest

what charge agin‘ ‘em cud be got to holt. God, ef anybody‘d look‘d ahead . . . a couple o‘

weeks later, when nothin‘ had ben throwed into the sea fer that long. . . .‖

Zadok was shewing signs of fright and exhaustion, and I let him keep silence for a while,

though glancing apprehensively at my watch. The tide had turned and was coming in now,

and the sound of the waves seemed to arouse him. I was glad of that tide, for at high water

the fishy smell might not be so bad. Again I strained to catch his whispers.

―That awful night . . . I seed ‘em . . . I was up in the cupalo . . . hordes of ‘em . . . swarms of

‘em . . . all over the reef an‘ swimmin‘ up the harbour into the Manuxet. . . . God, what

happened in the streets of Innsmouth that night . . . they rattled our door, but pa wouldn‘t open

. . . then he clumb aout the kitchen winder with his musket to find Selectman Mowry an‘ see

what he cud do. . . . Maounds o‘ the dead an‘ the dyin‘ . . . shots an‘ screams . . . shaoutin‘ in

Ol‘ Squar an‘ Taown Squar an‘ New Church Green . . . gaol throwed open . . . proclamation . .

. treason . . . called it the plague when folks come in an‘ faound haff our people missin‘ . . .

nobody left but them as ud jine in with Obed an‘ them things or else keep quiet . . . never

heerd o‘ my pa no more. . . .‖

The old man was panting, and perspiring profusely. His grip on my shoulder tightened.

―Everything cleaned up in the mornin‘—but they was traces. . . . Obed he kinder takes charge

an‘ says things is goin‘ to be changed . . . others’ll worship with us at meetin‘-time, an‘ sarten

haouses hez got to entertain guests . . . they wanted to mix like they done with the Kanakys,

an‘ he fer one didn‘t feel baound to stop ‘em. Far gone, was Obed . . . jest like a crazy man on

the subjeck. He says they brung us fish an‘ treasure, an‘ shud hev what they hankered arter. .

. .

―Nothin‘ was to be diff‘runt on the aoutside, only we was to keep shy o‘ strangers ef we

knowed what was good fer us. We all hed to take the Oath o‘ Dagon, an‘ later on they was

secon‘ an‘ third Oaths that some on us took. Them as ud help special, ud git special

rewards—gold an‘ sech— No use balkin‘, fer they was millions of ‘em daown thar. They‘d

ruther not start risin‘ an‘ wipin‘ aout humankind, but ef they was gave away an‘ forced to, they

cud do a lot toward jest that. We didn‘t hev them old charms to cut ‘em off like folks in the

Saouth Sea did, an‘ them Kanakys wudn‘t never give away their secrets.

―Yield up enough sacrifices an‘ savage knick-knacks an‘ harbourage in the taown when they

wanted it, an‘ they‘d let well enough alone. Wudn‘t bother no strangers as might bear tales

aoutside—that is, withaout they got pryin‘. All in the band of the faithful—Order o‘ Dagon—an‘

the children shud never die, but go back to the Mother Hydra an‘ Father Dagon what we all

come from onct—Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah-nagl

fhtagn—”

Old Zadok was fast lapsing into stark raving, and I held my breath. Poor old soul—to what

pitiful depths of hallucination had his liquor, plus his hatred of the decay, alienage, and

disease around him, brought that fertile, imaginative brain! He began to moan now, and tears

were coursing down his channelled cheeks into the depths of his beard.

―God, what I seen senct I was fifteen year‘ old—Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!—the folks as

was missin‘, an‘ them as kilt theirselves—them as told things in Arkham or Ipswich or sech

places was all called crazy, like you‘re a-callin‘ me right naow—but God, what I seen— They‘d

a kilt me long ago fer what I know, only I‘d took the fust an‘ secon‘ Oaths o‘ Dagon offen

Obed, so was pertected unlessen a jury of ‘em proved I told things knowin‘ an‘ delib‘rit . . . but

I wudn‘t take the third Oath—I‘d a died ruther‘n take that—

―It got wuss araound Civil War time, when children born senct ’forty-six begun to grow up—

some of ‘em, that is. I was afeard—never did no pryin‘ arter that awful night, an‘ never see

one of—them—clost to in all my life. That is, never no full-blooded one. I went to the war, an‘

ef I‘d a had any guts or sense I‘d a never come back, but settled away from here. But folks

wrote me things wa‘n‘t so bad. That, I s‘pose, was because gov‘munt draft men was in taown

arter ‘sixty-three. Arter the war it was jest as bad agin. People begun to fall off—mills an‘

shops shet daown—shippin‘ stopped an‘ the harbour choked up—railrud give up—but they . .

. they never stopped swimmin‘ in an‘ aout o‘ the river from that cursed reef o‘ Satan—an‘ more

an‘ more attic winders got a-boarded up, an‘ more an‘ more noises was heerd in haouses as

wa‘n‘t s‘posed to hev nobody in ‘em. . . .

―Folks aoutside hev their stories abaout us—s‘pose you‘ve heerd a plenty on ‘em, seein‘ what

questions ye ast—stories abaout things they‘ve seed naow an‘ then, an‘ abaout that queer

joolry as still comes in from somewhars an‘ ain‘t quite all melted up—but nothin‘ never gits

def‘nite. Nobody‘ll believe nothin‘. They call them gold-like things pirate loot, an‘ allaow the

Innsmouth folks hez furren blood or is distempered or somethin‘. Besides, them that lives

here shoo off as many strangers as they kin, an‘ encourage the rest not to git very cur‘ous,

specially raound night time. Beasts balk at the critters—hosses wuss‘n mules—but when they

got autos that was all right.

―In ‘forty-six Cap‘n Obed took a second wife that nobody in the taown never see—some says

he didn‘t want to, but was made to by them as he‘d called in—had three children by her—two

as disappeared young, but one gal as looked like anybody else an‘ was eddicated in Europe.

Obed finally got her married off by a trick to an Arkham feller as didn‘t suspect nothin‘. But

nobody aoutside‘ll hev nothin‘ to do with Innsmouth folks naow. Barnabas Marsh that runs the

refin‘ry naow is Obed‘s grandson by his fust wife—son of Onesiphorus, his eldest son, but his

mother was another o’ them as wa’n’t never seed aoutdoors.

―Right naow Barnabas is abaout changed. Can‘t shet his eyes no more, an‘ is all aout o‘

shape. They say he still wears clothes, but he‘ll take to the water soon. Mebbe he‘s tried it

already—they do sometimes go daown fer little spells afore they go fer good. Ain‘t ben seed

abaout in public fer nigh on ten year‘. Dun‘t know haow his poor wife kin feel—she come from

Ipswich, an‘ they nigh lynched Barnabas when he courted her fifty odd year‘ ago. Obed he

died in ‘seventy-eight, an‘ all the next gen‘ration is gone naow—the fust wife‘s children dead,

an‘ the rest . . . God knows. . . .‖

The sound of the incoming tide was now very insistent, and little by little it seemed to change

the old man‘s mood from maudlin tearfulness to watchful fear. He would pause now and then

to renew those nervous glances over his shoulder or out toward the reef, and despite the wild

absurdity of his tale, I could not help beginning to share his vague apprehensiveness. Zadok

now grew shriller, and seemed to be trying to whip up his courage with louder speech.

―Hey, yew, why dun‘t ye say somethin‘? Haow‘d ye like to be livin‘ in a taown like this, with

everything a-rottin‘ an‘ a-dyin‘, an‘ boarded-up monsters crawlin‘ an‘ bleatin‘ an‘ barkin‘ an‘

hoppin‘ araoun‘ black cellars an‘ attics every way ye turn? Hey? Haow‘d ye like to hear the

haowlin‘ night arter night from the churches an‘ Order o‘ Dagon Hall, an’ know what’s doin’

part o’ the haowlin’? Haow‘d ye like to hear what comes from that awful reef every May-Eve

an‘ Hallowmass? Hey? Think the old man‘s crazy, eh? Wal, Sir, let me tell ye that ain’t the

wust!”

Zadok was really screaming now, and the mad frenzy of his voice disturbed me more than I

care to own.

―Curse ye, dun‘t set thar a-starin‘ at me with them eyes—I tell Obed Marsh he‘s in hell, an‘ hez

got to stay thar! Heh, heh . . . in hell, I says! Can‘t git me—I hain‘t done nothin‘ nor told

nobody nothin‘—

―Oh, you, young feller? Wal, even ef I hain‘t told nobody nothin‘ yet, I‘m a-goin‘ to naow! You

jest set still an‘ listen to me, boy—this is what I ain‘t never told nobody. . . . I says I didn‘t do

no pryin‘ arter that night—but I faound things aout jest the same!

―Yew want to know what the reel horror is, hey? Wal, it‘s this—it ain‘t what them fish devils

hez done, but what they’re a-goin’ to do! They‘re a-bringin‘ things up aout o‘ whar they come

from into the taown—ben doin‘ it fer years, an‘ slackenin‘ up lately. Them haouses north o‘ the

river betwixt Water an‘ Main Streets is full of ‘em—them devils an’ what they brung—an‘ when

they git ready. . . . I say, when they git ready . . . ever hear tell of a shoggoth? . . .

―Hey, d‘ye hear me? I tell ye I know what them things be—I seen ’em one night when . . .

EH—AHHHH—AH! E‘YAAHHHH. . . .‖

The hideous suddenness and inhuman frightfulness of the old man‘s shriek almost made me

faint. His eyes, looking past me toward the malodorous sea, were positively starting from his

head; while his face was a mask of fear worthy of Greek tragedy. His bony claw dug

monstrously into my shoulder, and he made no motion as I turned my head to look at

whatever he had glimpsed.

There was nothing that I could see. Only the incoming tide, with perhaps one set of ripples

more local than the long-flung line of breakers. But now Zadok was shaking me, and I turned

back to watch the melting of that fear-frozen face into a chaos of twitching eyelids and

mumbling gums. Presently his voice came back—albeit as a trembling whisper.

―Git aout o’ here! Git aout o‘ here! They seen us—git aout fer your life! Dun‘t wait fer nothin‘—

they know naow— Run fer it—quick—aout o’ this taown—‖

Another heavy wave dashed against the loosening masonry of the bygone wharf, and

changed the mad ancient‘s whisper to another inhuman and blood-curdling scream.

―E—YAAHHHH! . . . YHAAAAAAA! . . .‖

Before I could recover my scattered wits he had relaxed his clutch on my shoulder and

dashed wildly inland toward the street, reeling northward around the ruined warehouse wall.

I glanced back at the sea, but there was nothing there. And when I reached Water Street and

looked along it toward the north there was no remaining trace of Zadok Allen.

IV.

I can hardly describe the mood in which I was left by this harrowing episode—an episode at

once mad and pitiful, grotesque and terrifying. The grocery boy had prepared me for it, yet the

reality left me none the less bewildered and disturbed. Puerile though the story was, old

Zadok‘s insane earnestness and horror had communicated to me a mounting unrest which

joined with my earlier sense of loathing for the town and its blight of intangible shadow.

Later I might sift the tale and extract some nucleus of historic allegory; just now I wished to

put it out of my head. The hour had grown perilously late—my watch said 7:15, and the

Arkham bus left Town Square at eight—so I tried to give my thoughts as neutral and practical

a cast as possible, meanwhile walking rapidly through the deserted streets of gaping roofs

and leaning houses toward the hotel where I had checked my valise and would find my bus.

Though the golden light of late afternoon gave the ancient roofs and decrepit chimneys an air

of mystic loveliness and peace, I could not help glancing over my shoulder now and then. I

would surely be very glad to get out of malodorous and fear-shadowed Innsmouth, and

wished there were some other vehicle than the bus driven by that sinister-looking fellow

Sargent. Yet I did not hurry too precipitately, for there were architectural details worth viewing

at every silent corner; and I could easily, I calculated, cover the necessary distance in a half-

hour.

Studying the grocery youth‘s map and seeking a route I had not traversed before, I chose

Marsh Street instead of State for my approach to Town Square. Near the corner of Fall Street I

began to see scattered groups of furtive whisperers, and when I finally reached the Square I

saw that almost all the loiterers were congregated around the door of the Gilman House. It

seemed as if many bulging, watery, unwinking eyes looked oddly at me as I claimed my valise

in the lobby, and I hoped that none of these unpleasant creatures would be my fellow-

passengers on the coach.

The bus, rather early, rattled in with three passengers somewhat before eight, and an evil-

looking fellow on the sidewalk muttered a few indistinguishable words to the driver. Sargent

threw out a mail-bag and a roll of newspapers, and entered the hotel; while the passengers—

the same men whom I had seen arriving in Newburyport that morning—shambled to the

sidewalk and exchanged some faint guttural words with a loafer in a language I could have

sworn was not English. I boarded the empty coach and took the same seat I had taken

before, but was hardly settled before Sargent reappeared and began mumbling in a throaty

voice of peculiar repulsiveness.

I was, it appeared, in very bad luck. There had been something wrong with the engine,

despite the excellent time made from Newburyport, and the bus could not complete the

journey to Arkham. No, it could not possibly be repaired that night, nor was there any other

way of getting transportation out of Innsmouth, either to Arkham or elsewhere. Sargent was

sorry, but I would have to stop over at the Gilman. Probably the clerk would make the price

easy for me, but there was nothing else to do. Almost dazed by this sudden obstacle, and

violently dreading the fall of night in this decaying and half-unlighted town, I left the bus and

re-entered the hotel lobby; where the sullen, queer-looking night clerk told me I could have

Room 428 on next the top floor—large, but without running water—for a dollar.

Despite what I had heard of this hotel in Newburyport, I signed the register, paid my dollar, let

the clerk take my valise, and followed that sour, solitary attendant up three creaking flights of

stairs past dusty corridors which seemed wholly devoid of life. My room, a dismal rear one

with two windows and bare, cheap furnishings, overlooked a dingy courtyard otherwise

hemmed in by low, deserted brick blocks, and commanded a view of decrepit westward-

stretching roofs with a marshy countryside beyond. At the end of the corridor was a

bathroom—a discouraging relique with ancient marble bowl, tin tub, faint electric light, and

musty wooden panelling around all the plumbing fixtures.

It being still daylight, I descended to the Square and looked around for a dinner of some sort;

noticing as I did so the strange glances I received from the unwholesome loafers. Since the

grocery was closed, I was forced to patronise the restaurant I had shunned before; a stooped,

narrow-headed man with staring, unwinking eyes, and a flat-nosed wench with unbelievably

thick, clumsy hands being in attendance. The service was of the counter type, and it relieved

me to find that much was evidently served from cans and packages. A bowl of vegetable soup

with crackers was enough for me, and I soon headed back for my cheerless room at the

Gilman; getting an evening paper and a flyspecked magazine from the evil-visaged clerk at

the rickety stand beside his desk.

As twilight deepened I turned on the one feeble electric bulb over the cheap, iron-framed bed,

and tried as best I could to continue the reading I had begun. I felt it advisable to keep my

mind wholesomely occupied, for it would not do to brood over the abnormalities of this

ancient, blight-shadowed town while I was still within its borders. The insane yarn I had heard

from the aged drunkard did not promise very pleasant dreams, and I felt I must keep the

image of his wild, watery eyes as far as possible from my imagination.

Also, I must not dwell on what that factory inspector had told the Newburyport ticket-agent

about the Gilman House and the voices of its nocturnal tenants—not on that, nor on the face

beneath the tiara in the black church doorway; the face for whose horror my conscious mind

could not account. It would perhaps have been easier to keep my thoughts from disturbing

topics had the room not been so gruesomely musty. As it was, the lethal mustiness blended

hideously with the town‘s general fishy odour and persistently focussed one‘s fancy on death

and decay.

Another thing that disturbed me was the absence of a bolt on the door of my room. One had

been there, as marks clearly shewed, but there were signs of recent removal. No doubt it had

become out of order, like so many other things in this decrepit edifice. In my nervousness I

looked around and discovered a bolt on the clothes-press which seemed to be of the same

size, judging from the marks, as the one formerly on the door. To gain a partial relief from the

general tension I busied myself by transferring this hardware to the vacant place with the aid

of a handy three-in-one device including a screw-driver which I kept on my key-ring. The bolt

fitted perfectly, and I was somewhat relieved when I knew that I could shoot it firmly upon

retiring. Not that I had any real apprehension of its need, but that any symbol of security was

welcome in an environment of this kind. There were adequate bolts on the two lateral doors to

connecting rooms, and these I proceeded to fasten.

I did not undress, but decided to read till I was sleepy and then lie down with only my coat,

collar, and shoes off. Taking a pocket flashlight from my valise, I placed it in my trousers, so

that I could read my watch if I woke up later in the dark. Drowsiness, however, did not come;

and when I stopped to analyse my thoughts I found to my disquiet that I was really

unconsciously listening for something—listening for something which I dreaded but could not

name. That inspector‘s story must have worked on my imagination more deeply than I had

suspected. Again I tried to read, but found that I made no progress.

After a time I seemed to hear the stairs and corridors creak at intervals as if with footsteps,

and wondered if the other rooms were beginning to fill up. There were no voices, however,

and it struck me that there was something subtly furtive about the creaking. I did not like it,

and debated whether I had better try to sleep at all. This town had some queer people, and

there had undoubtedly been several disappearances. Was this one of those inns where

travellers were slain for their money? Surely I had no look of excessive prosperity. Or were

the townsfolk really so resentful about curious visitors? Had my obvious sightseeing, with its

frequent map-consultations, aroused unfavourable notice? It occurred to me that I must be in

a highly nervous state to let a few random creakings set me off speculating in this fashion—

but I regretted none the less that I was unarmed.

At length, feeling a fatigue which had nothing of drowsiness in it, I bolted the newly outfitted

hall door, turned off the light, and threw myself down on the hard, uneven bed—coat, collar,

shoes, and all. In the darkness every faint noise of the night seemed magnified, and a flood of

doubly unpleasant thoughts swept over me. I was sorry I had put out the light, yet was too

tired to rise and turn it on again. Then, after a long, dreary interval, and prefaced by a fresh

creaking of stairs and corridor, there came that soft, damnably unmistakable sound which

seemed like a malign fulfilment of all my apprehensions. Without the least shadow of a doubt,

the lock on my hall door was being tried—cautiously, furtively, tentatively—with a key.

My sensations upon recognising this sign of actual peril were perhaps less rather than more

tumultuous because of my previous vague fears. I had been, albeit without definite reason,

instinctively on my guard—and that was to my advantage in the new and real crisis, whatever

it might turn out to be. Nevertheless the change in the menace from vague premonition to

immediate reality was a profound shock, and fell upon me with the force of a genuine blow. It

never once occurred to me that the fumbling might be a mere mistake. Malign purpose was all

I could think of, and I kept deathly quiet, awaiting the would-be intruder‘s next move.

After a time the cautious rattling ceased, and I heard the room to the north entered with a

pass-key. Then the lock of the connecting door to my room was softly tried. The bolt held, of

course, and I heard the floor creak as the prowler left the room. After a moment there came

another soft rattling, and I knew that the room to the south of me was being entered. Again a

furtive trying of a bolted connecting door, and again a receding creaking. This time the

creaking went along the hall and down the stairs, so I knew that the prowler had realised the

bolted condition of my doors and was giving up his attempt for a greater or lesser time, as the

future would shew.

The readiness with which I fell into a plan of action proves that I must have been

subconsciously fearing some menace and considering possible avenues of escape for hours.

From the first I felt that the unseen fumbler meant a danger not to be met or dealt with, but

only to be fled from as precipitately as possible. The one thing to do was to get out of that

hotel alive as quickly as I could, and through some channel other than the front stairs and

lobby.

Rising softly and throwing my flashlight on the switch, I sought to light the bulb over my bed in

order to choose and pocket some belongings for a swift, valiseless flight. Nothing, however,

happened; and I saw that the power had been cut off. Clearly, some cryptic, evil movement

was afoot on a large scale—just what, I could not say. As I stood pondering with my hand on

the now useless switch I heard a muffled creaking on the floor below, and thought I could

barely distinguish voices in conversation. A moment later I felt less sure that the deeper

sounds were voices, since the apparent hoarse barkings and loose-syllabled croakings bore

so little resemblance to recognised human speech. Then I thought with renewed force of what

the factory inspector had heard in the night in this mouldering and pestilential building.

Having filled my pockets with the flashlight‘s aid, I put on my hat and tiptoed to the windows to

consider chances of descent. Despite the state‘s safety regulations there was no fire escape

on this side of the hotel, and I saw that my windows commanded only a sheer three-story

drop to the cobbled courtyard. On the right and left, however, some ancient brick business

blocks abutted on the hotel; their slant roofs coming up to a reasonable jumping distance from

my fourth-story level. To reach either of these lines of buildings I would have to be in a room

two doors from my own—in one case on the north and in the other case on the south—and

my mind instantly set to work calculating what chances I had of making the transfer.

I could not, I decided, risk an emergence into the corridor; where my footsteps would surely

be heard, and where the difficulties of entering the desired room would be insuperable. My

progress, if it was to be made at all, would have to be through the less solidly built connecting

doors of the rooms; the locks and bolts of which I would have to force violently, using my

shoulder as a battering-ram whenever they were set against me. This, I thought, would be

possible owing to the rickety nature of the house and its fixtures; but I realised I could not do it

noiselessly. I would have to count on sheer speed, and the chance of getting to a window

before any hostile forces became coördinated enough to open the right door toward me with a

pass-key. My own outer door I reinforced by pushing the bureau against it—little by little, in

order to make a minimum of sound.

I perceived that my chances were very slender, and was fully prepared for any calamity. Even

getting to another roof would not solve the problem, for there would then remain the task of

reaching the ground and escaping from the town. One thing in my favour was the deserted

and ruinous state of the abutting buildings, and the number of skylights gaping blackly open in

each row.

Gathering from the grocery boy‘s map that the best route out of town was southward, I

glanced first at the connecting door on the south side of the room. It was designed to open in

my direction, hence I saw—after drawing the bolt and finding other fastenings in place—it was

not a favourable one for forcing. Accordingly abandoning it as a route, I cautiously moved the

bedstead against it to hamper any attack which might be made on it later from the next room.

The door on the north was hung to open away from me, and this—though a test proved it to

be locked or bolted from the other side—I knew must be my route. If I could gain the roofs of

the buildings in Paine Street and descend successfully to the ground level, I might perhaps

dart through the courtyard and the adjacent or opposite buildings to Washington or Bates—or

else emerge in Paine and edge around southward into Washington. In any case, I would aim

to strike Washington somehow and get quickly out of the Town Square region. My preference

would be to avoid Paine, since the fire station there might be open all night.

As I thought of these things I looked out over the squalid sea of decaying roofs below me,

now brightened by the beams of a moon not much past full. On the right the black gash of the

river-gorge clove the panorama; abandoned factories and railway station clinging barnacle-

like to its sides. Beyond it the rusted railway and the Rowley road led off through a flat,

marshy terrain dotted with islets of higher and dryer scrub-grown land. On the left the creek-

threaded countryside was nearer, the narrow road to Ipswich gleaming white in the moonlight.

I could not see from my side of the hotel the southward route toward Arkham which I had

determined to take.

I was irresolutely speculating on when I had better attack the northward door, and on how I

could least audibly manage it, when I noticed that the vague noises underfoot had given place

to a fresh and heavier creaking of the stairs. A wavering flicker of light shewed through my

transom, and the boards of the corridor began to groan with a ponderous load. Muffled

sounds of possible vocal origin approached, and at length a firm knock came at my outer

door.

For a moment I simply held my breath and waited. Eternities seemed to elapse, and the

nauseous fishy odour of my environment seemed to mount suddenly and spectacularly. Then

the knocking was repeated—continuously, and with growing insistence. I knew that the time

for action had come, and forthwith drew the bolt of the northward connecting door, bracing

myself for the task of battering it open. The knocking waxed louder, and I hoped that its

volume would cover the sound of my efforts. At last beginning my attempt, I lunged again and

again at the thin panelling with my left shoulder, heedless of shock or pain. The door resisted

even more than I had expected, but I did not give in. And all the while the clamour at the outer

door increased.

Finally the connecting door gave, but with such a crash that I knew those outside must have

heard. Instantly the outside knocking became a violent battering, while keys sounded

ominously in the hall doors of the rooms on both sides of me. Rushing through the newly

opened connexion, I succeeded in bolting the northerly hall door before the lock could be

turned; but even as I did so I heard the hall door of the third room—the one from whose

window I had hoped to reach the roof below—being tried with a pass-key.

For an instant I felt absolute despair, since my trapping in a chamber with no window egress

seemed complete. A wave of almost abnormal horror swept over me, and invested with a

terrible but unexplainable singularity the flashlight-glimpsed dust prints made by the intruder

who had lately tried my door from this room. Then, with a dazed automatism which persisted

despite hopelessness, I made for the next connecting door and performed the blind motion of

pushing at it in an effort to get through and—granting that fastenings might be as

providentially intact as in this second room—bolt the hall door beyond before the lock could

be turned from outside.

Sheer fortunate chance gave me my reprieve—for the connecting door before me was not

only unlocked but actually ajar. In a second I was through, and had my right knee and

shoulder against a hall door which was visibly opening inward. My pressure took the opener

off guard, for the thing shut as I pushed, so that I could slip the well-conditioned bolt as I had

done with the other door. As I gained this respite I heard the battering at the two other doors

abate, while a confused clatter came from the connecting door I had shielded with the

bedstead. Evidently the bulk of my assailants had entered the southerly room and were

massing in a lateral attack. But at the same moment a pass-key sounded in the next door to

the north, and I knew that a nearer peril was at hand.

The northward connecting door was wide open, but there was no time to think about checking

the already turning lock in the hall. All I could do was to shut and bolt the open connecting

door, as well as its mate on the opposite side—pushing a bedstead against the one and a

bureau against the other, and moving a washstand in front of the hall door. I must, I saw, trust

to such makeshift barriers to shield me till I could get out the window and on the roof of the

Paine Street block. But even in this acute moment my chief horror was something apart from

the immediate weakness of my defences. I was shuddering because not one of my pursuers,

despite some hideous pantings, gruntings, and subdued barkings at odd intervals, was

uttering an unmuffled or intelligible vocal sound.

As I moved the furniture and rushed toward the windows I heard a frightful scurrying along the

corridor toward the room north of me, and perceived that the southward battering had ceased.

Plainly, most of my opponents were about to concentrate against the feeble connecting door

which they knew must open directly on me. Outside, the moon played on the ridgepole of the

block below, and I saw that the jump would be desperately hazardous because of the steep

surface on which I must land.

Surveying the conditions, I chose the more southerly of the two windows as my avenue of

escape; planning to land on the inner slope of the roof and make for the nearest skylight.

Once inside one of the decrepit brick structures I would have to reckon with pursuit; but I

hoped to descend and dodge in and out of yawning doorways along the shadowed courtyard,

eventually getting to Washington Street and slipping out of town toward the south.

The clatter at the northerly connecting door was now terrific, and I saw that the weak

panelling was beginning to splinter. Obviously, the besiegers had brought some ponderous

object into play as a battering-ram. The bedstead, however, still held firm; so that I had at

least a faint chance of making good my escape. As I opened the window I noticed that it was

flanked by heavy velour draperies suspended from a pole by brass rings, and also that there

was a large projecting catch for the shutters on the exterior. Seeing a possible means of

avoiding the dangerous jump, I yanked at the hangings and brought them down, pole and all;

then quickly hooking two of the rings in the shutter catch and flinging the drapery outside. The

heavy folds reached fully to the abutting roof, and I saw that the rings and catch would be

likely to bear my weight. So, climbing out of the window and down the improvised rope ladder,

I left behind me forever the morbid and horror-infested fabric of the Gilman House.

I landed safely on the loose slates of the steep roof, and succeeded in gaining the gaping

black skylight without a slip. Glancing up at the window I had left, I observed it was still dark,

though far across the crumbling chimneys to the north I could see lights ominously blazing in

the Order of Dagon Hall, the Baptist church, and the Congregational church which I recalled

so shiveringly. There had seemed to be no one in the courtyard below, and I hoped there

would be a chance to get away before the spreading of a general alarm. Flashing my pocket

lamp into the skylight, I saw that there were no steps down. The distance was slight, however,

so I clambered over the brink and dropped; striking a dusty floor littered with crumbling boxes

and barrels.

The place was ghoulish-looking, but I was past minding such impressions and made at once

for the staircase revealed by my flashlight—after a hasty glance at my watch, which shewed

the hour to be 2 a.m. The steps creaked, but seemed tolerably sound; and I raced down past

a barn-like second story to the ground floor. The desolation was complete, and only echoes

answered my footfalls. At length I reached the lower hall, at one end of which I saw a faint

luminous rectangle marking the ruined Paine Street doorway. Heading the other way, I found

the back door also open; and darted out and down five stone steps to the grass-grown

cobblestones of the courtyard.

The moonbeams did not reach down here, but I could just see my way about without using

the flashlight. Some of the windows on the Gilman House side were faintly glowing, and I

thought I heard confused sounds within. Walking softly over to the Washington Street side I

perceived several open doorways, and chose the nearest as my route out. The hallway inside

was black, and when I reached the opposite end I saw that the street door was wedged

immovably shut. Resolved to try another building, I groped my way back toward the courtyard,

but stopped short when close to the doorway.

For out of an opened door in the Gilman House a large crowd of doubtful shapes was

pouring—lanterns bobbing in the darkness, and horrible croaking voices exchanging low cries

in what was certainly not English. The figures moved uncertainly, and I realised to my relief

that they did not know where I had gone; but for all that they sent a shiver of horror through

my frame. Their features were indistinguishable, but their crouching, shambling gait was

abominably repellent. And worst of all, I perceived that one figure was strangely robed, and

unmistakably surmounted by a tall tiara of a design altogether too familiar. As the figures

spread throughout the courtyard, I felt my fears increase. Suppose I could find no egress from

this building on the street side? The fishy odour was detestable, and I wondered I could stand

it without fainting. Again groping toward the street, I opened a door off the hall and came upon

an empty room with closely shuttered but sashless windows. Fumbling in the rays of my

flashlight, I found I could open the shutters; and in another moment had climbed outside and

was carefully closing the aperture in its original manner.

I was now in Washington Street, and for the moment saw no living thing nor any light save

that of the moon. From several directions in the distance, however, I could hear the sound of

hoarse voices, of footsteps, and of a curious kind of pattering which did not sound quite like

footsteps. Plainly I had no time to lose. The points of the compass were clear to me, and I

was glad that all the street-lights were turned off, as is often the custom on strongly moonlit

nights in unprosperous rural regions. Some of the sounds came from the south, yet I retained

my design of escaping in that direction. There would, I knew, be plenty of deserted doorways

to shelter me in case I met any person or group who looked like pursuers.

I walked rapidly, softly, and close to the ruined houses. While hatless and dishevelled after my

arduous climb, I did not look especially noticeable; and stood a good chance of passing

unheeded if forced to encounter any casual wayfarer. At Bates Street I drew into a yawning

vestibule while two shambling figures crossed in front of me, but was soon on my way again

and approaching the open space where Eliot Street obliquely crosses Washington at the

intersection of South. Though I had never seen this space, it had looked dangerous to me on

the grocery youth‘s map; since the moonlight would have free play there. There was no use

trying to evade it, for any alternative course would involve detours of possibly disastrous

visibility and delaying effect. The only thing to do was to cross it boldly and openly; imitating

the typical shamble of the Innsmouth folk as best I could, and trusting that no one—or at least

no pursuer of mine—would be there.

Just how fully the pursuit was organised—and indeed, just what its purpose might be—I could

form no idea. There seemed to be unusual activity in the town, but I judged that the news of

my escape from the Gilman had not yet spread. I would, of course, soon have to shift from

Washington to some other southward street; for that party from the hotel would doubtless be

after me. I must have left dust prints in that last old building, revealing how I had gained the

street.

The open space was, as I had expected, strongly moonlit; and I saw the remains of a park-

like, iron-railed green in its centre. Fortunately no one was about, though a curious sort of

buzz or roar seemed to be increasing in the direction of Town Square. South Street was very

wide, leading directly down a slight declivity to the waterfront and commanding a long view

out at sea; and I hoped that no one would be glancing up it from afar as I crossed in the bright

moonlight.

My progress was unimpeded, and no fresh sound arose to hint that I had been spied.

Glancing about me, I involuntarily let my pace slacken for a second to take in the sight of the

sea, gorgeous in the burning moonlight at the street‘s end. Far out beyond the breakwater

was the dim, dark line of Devil Reef, and as I glimpsed it I could not help thinking of all the

hideous legends I had heard in the last thirty-four hours—legends which portrayed this ragged

rock as a veritable gateway to realms of unfathomed horror and inconceivable abnormality.

Then, without warning, I saw the intermittent flashes of light on the distant reef. They were

definite and unmistakable, and awaked in my mind a blind horror beyond all rational

proportion. My muscles tightened for panic flight, held in only by a certain unconscious

caution and half-hypnotic fascination. And to make matters worse, there now flashed forth

from the lofty cupola of the Gilman House, which loomed up to the northeast behind me, a

series of analogous though differently spaced gleams which could be nothing less than an

answering signal.

Controlling my muscles, and realising afresh how plainly visible I was, I resumed my brisker

and feignedly shambling pace; though keeping my eyes on that hellish and ominous reef as

long as the opening of South Street gave me a seaward view. What the whole proceeding

meant, I could not imagine; unless it involved some strange rite connected with Devil Reef, or

unless some party had landed from a ship on that sinister rock. I now bent to the left around

the ruinous green; still gazing toward the ocean as it blazed in the spectral summer

moonlight, and watching the cryptical flashing of those nameless, unexplainable beacons.

It was then that the most horrible impression of all was borne in upon me—the impression

which destroyed my last vestige of self-control and set me running frantically southward past

the yawning black doorways and fishily staring windows of that deserted nightmare street. For

at a closer glance I saw that the moonlit waters between the reef and the shore were far from

empty. They were alive with a teeming horde of shapes swimming inward toward the town;

and even at my vast distance and in my single moment of perception I could tell that the

bobbing heads and flailing arms were alien and aberrant in a way scarcely to be expressed or

consciously formulated.

My frantic running ceased before I had covered a block, for at my left I began to hear

something like the hue and cry of organised pursuit. There were footsteps and guttural

sounds, and a rattling motor wheezed south along Federal Street. In a second all my plans

were utterly changed—for if the southward highway were blocked ahead of me, I must clearly

find another egress from Innsmouth. I paused and drew into a gaping doorway, reflecting how

lucky I was to have left the moonlit open space before these pursuers came down the parallel

street.

A second reflection was less comforting. Since the pursuit was down another street, it was

plain that the party was not following me directly. It had not seen me, but was simply obeying

a general plan of cutting off my escape. This, however, implied that all roads leading out of

Innsmouth were similarly patrolled; for the denizens could not have known what route I

intended to take. If this were so, I would have to make my retreat across country away from

any road; but how could I do that in view of the marshy and creek-riddled nature of all the

surrounding region? For a moment my brain reeled—both from sheer hopelessness and from

a rapid increase in the omnipresent fishy odour.

Then I thought of the abandoned railway to Rowley, whose solid line of ballasted, weed-grown

earth still stretched off to the northwest from the crumbling station on the edge of the river-

gorge. There was just a chance that the townsfolk would not think of that; since its brier-

choked desertion made it half-impassable, and the unlikeliest of all avenues for a fugitive to

choose. I had seen it clearly from my hotel window, and knew about how it lay. Most of its

earlier length was uncomfortably visible from the Rowley road, and from high places in the

town itself; but one could perhaps crawl inconspicuously through the undergrowth. At any

rate, it would form my only chance of deliverance, and there was nothing to do but try it.

Drawing inside the hall of my deserted shelter, I once more consulted the grocery boy‘s map

with the aid of the flashlight. The immediate problem was how to reach the ancient railway;

and I now saw that the safest course was ahead to Babson Street, then west to Lafayette—

there edging around but not crossing an open space homologous to the one I had traversed—

and subsequently back northward and westward in a zigzagging line through Lafayette,

Bates, Adams, and Bank Streets—the latter skirting the river-gorge—to the abandoned and

dilapidated station I had seen from my window. My reason for going ahead to Babson was

that I wished neither to re-cross the earlier open space nor to begin my westward course

along a cross street as broad as South.

Starting once more, I crossed the street to the right-hand side in order to edge around into

Babson as inconspicuously as possible. Noises still continued in Federal Street, and as I

glanced behind me I thought I saw a gleam of light near the building through which I had

escaped. Anxious to leave Washington Street, I broke into a quiet dog-trot, trusting to luck not

to encounter any observing eye. Next the corner of Babson Street I saw to my alarm that one

of the houses was still inhabited, as attested by curtains at the window; but there were no

lights within, and I passed it without disaster.

In Babson Street, which crossed Federal and might thus reveal me to the searchers, I clung

as closely as possible to the sagging, uneven buildings; twice pausing in a doorway as the

noises behind me momentarily increased. The open space ahead shone wide and desolate

under the moon, but my route would not force me to cross it. During my second pause I

began to detect a fresh distribution of the vague sounds; and upon looking cautiously out from

cover beheld a motor-car darting across the open space, bound outward along Eliot Street,

which there intersects both Babson and Lafayette.

As I watched—choked by a sudden rise in the fishy odour after a short abatement—I saw a

band of uncouth, crouching shapes loping and shambling in the same direction; and knew

that this must be the party guarding the Ipswich road, since that highway forms an extension

of Eliot Street. Two of the figures I glimpsed were in voluminous robes, and one wore a

peaked diadem which glistened whitely in the moonlight. The gait of this figure was so odd

that it sent a chill through me—for it seemed to me the creature was almost hopping.

When the last of the band was out of sight I resumed my progress; darting around the corner

into Lafayette Street, and crossing Eliot very hurriedly lest stragglers of the party be still

advancing along that thoroughfare. I did hear some croaking and clattering sounds far off

toward Town Square, but accomplished the passage without disaster. My greatest dread was

in re-crossing broad and moonlit South Street—with its seaward view—and I had to nerve

myself for the ordeal. Someone might easily be looking, and possible Eliot Street stragglers

could not fail to glimpse me from either of two points. At the last moment I decided I had better

slacken my trot and make the crossing as before in the shambling gait of an average

Innsmouth native.

When the view of the water again opened out—this time on my right—I was half-determined

not to look at it at all. I could not, however, resist; but cast a sidelong glance as I carefully and

imitatively shambled toward the protecting shadows ahead. There was no ship visible, as I

had half expected there would be. Instead, the first thing which caught my eye was a small

rowboat pulling in toward the abandoned wharves and laden with some bulky, tarpaulin-

covered object. Its rowers, though distantly and indistinctly seen, were of an especially

repellent aspect. Several swimmers were still discernible; while on the far black reef I could

see a faint, steady glow unlike the winking beacon visible before, and of a curious colour

which I could not precisely identify. Above the slant roofs ahead and to the right there loomed

the tall cupola of the Gilman House, but it was completely dark. The fishy odour, dispelled for

a moment by some merciful breeze, now closed in again with maddening intensity.

I had not quite crossed the street when I heard a muttering band advancing along Washington

from the north. As they reached the broad open space where I had had my first disquieting

glimpse of the moonlit water I could see them plainly only a block away—and was horrified by

the bestial abnormality of their faces and the dog-like sub-humanness of their crouching gait.

One man moved in a positively simian way, with long arms frequently touching the ground;

while another figure—robed and tiaraed—seemed to progress in an almost hopping fashion. I

judged this party to be the one I had seen in the Gilman‘s courtyard—the one, therefore, most

closely on my trail. As some of the figures turned to look in my direction I was transfixed with

fright, yet managed to preserve the casual, shambling gait I had assumed. To this day I do not

know whether they saw me or not. If they did, my stratagem must have deceived them, for

they passed on across the moonlit space without varying their course—meanwhile croaking

and jabbering in some hateful guttural patois I could not identify.

Once more in shadow, I resumed my former dog-trot past the leaning and decrepit houses

that stared blankly into the night. Having crossed to the western sidewalk I rounded the

nearest corner into Bates Street, where I kept close to the buildings on the southern side. I

passed two houses shewing signs of habitation, one of which had faint lights in upper rooms,

yet met with no obstacle. As I turned into Adams Street I felt measurably safer, but received a

shock when a man reeled out of a black doorway directly in front of me. He proved, however,

too hopelessly drunk to be a menace; so that I reached the dismal ruins of the Bank Street

warehouses in safety.

No one was stirring in that dead street beside the river-gorge, and the roar of the waterfalls

quite drowned my footsteps. It was a long dog-trot to the ruined station, and the great brick

warehouse walls around me seemed somehow more terrifying than the fronts of private

houses. At last I saw the ancient arcaded station—or what was left of it—and made directly for

the tracks that started from its farther end.

The rails were rusty but mainly intact, and not more than half the ties had rotted away.

Walking or running on such a surface was very difficult; but I did my best, and on the whole

made very fair time. For some distance the line kept on along the gorge‘s brink, but at length I

reached the long covered bridge where it crossed the chasm at a dizzy height. The condition

of this bridge would determine my next step. If humanly possible, I would use it; if not, I would

have to risk more street wandering and take the nearest intact highway bridge.

The vast, barn-like length of the old bridge gleamed spectrally in the moonlight, and I saw that

the ties were safe for at least a few feet within. Entering, I began to use my flashlight, and was

almost knocked down by the cloud of bats that flapped past me. About half way across there

was a perilous gap in the ties which I feared for a moment would halt me; but in the end I

risked a desperate jump which fortunately succeeded.

I was glad to see the moonlight again when I emerged from that macabre tunnel. The old

tracks crossed River Street at grade, and at once veered off into a region increasingly rural

and with less and less of Innsmouth‘s abhorrent fishy odour. Here the dense growth of weeds

and briers hindered me and cruelly tore my clothes, but I was none the less glad that they

were there to give me concealment in case of peril. I knew that much of my route must be

visible from the Rowley road.

The marshy region began very shortly, with the single track on a low, grassy embankment

where the weedy growth was somewhat thinner. Then came a sort of island of higher ground,

where the line passed through a shallow open cut choked with bushes and brambles. I was

very glad of this partial shelter, since at this point the Rowley road was uncomfortably near

according to my window view. At the end of the cut it would cross the track and swerve off to a

safer distance; but meanwhile I must be exceedingly careful. I was by this time thankfully

certain that the railway itself was not patrolled.

Just before entering the cut I glanced behind me, but saw no pursuer. The ancient spires and

roofs of decaying Innsmouth gleamed lovely and ethereal in the magic yellow moonlight, and I

thought of how they must have looked in the old days before the shadow fell. Then, as my

gaze circled inland from the town, something less tranquil arrested my notice and held me

immobile for a second.

What I saw—or fancied I saw—was a disturbing suggestion of undulant motion far to the

south; a suggestion which made me conclude that a very large horde must be pouring out of

the city along the level Ipswich road. The distance was great, and I could distinguish nothing

in detail; but I did not at all like the look of that moving column. It undulated too much, and

glistened too brightly in the rays of the now westering moon. There was a suggestion of

sound, too, though the wind was blowing the other way—a suggestion of bestial scraping and

bellowing even worse than the muttering of the parties I had lately overheard.

All sorts of unpleasant conjectures crossed my mind. I thought of those very extreme

Innsmouth types said to be hidden in crumbling, centuried warrens near the waterfront. I

thought, too, of those nameless swimmers I had seen. Counting the parties so far glimpsed,

as well as those presumably covering other roads, the number of my pursuers must be

strangely large for a town as depopulated as Innsmouth.

Whence could come the dense personnel of such a column as I now beheld? Did those

ancient, unplumbed warrens teem with a twisted, uncatalogued, and unsuspected life? Or had

some unseen ship indeed landed a legion of unknown outsiders on that hellish reef? Who

were they? Why were they there? And if such a column of them was scouring the Ipswich

road, would the patrols on the other roads be likewise augmented?

I had entered the brush-grown cut and was struggling along at a very slow pace when that

damnable fishy odour again waxed dominant. Had the wind suddenly changed eastward, so

that it blew in from the sea and over the town? It must have, I concluded, since I now began

to hear shocking guttural murmurs from that hitherto silent direction. There was another

sound, too—a kind of wholesale, colossal flopping or pattering which somehow called up

images of the most detestable sort. It made me think illogically of that unpleasantly undulating

column on the far-off Ipswich road.

And then both stench and sounds grew stronger, so that I paused shivering and grateful for

the cut‘s protection. It was here, I recalled, that the Rowley road drew so close to the old

railway before crossing westward and diverging. Something was coming along that road, and

I must lie low till its passage and vanishment in the distance. Thank heaven these creatures

employed no dogs for tracking—though perhaps that would have been impossible amidst the

omnipresent regional odour. Crouched in the bushes of that sandy cleft I felt reasonably safe,

even though I knew the searchers would have to cross the track in front of me not much more

than a hundred yards away. I would be able to see them, but they could not, except by a

malign miracle, see me.

All at once I began dreading to look at them as they passed. I saw the close moonlit space

where they would surge by, and had curious thoughts about the irredeemable pollution of that

space. They would perhaps be the worst of all Innsmouth types—something one would not

care to remember.

The stench waxed overpowering, and the noises swelled to a bestial babel of croaking,

baying, and barking without the least suggestion of human speech. Were these indeed the

voices of my pursuers? Did they have dogs after all? So far I had seen none of the lower

animals in Innsmouth. That flopping or pattering was monstrous—I could not look upon the

degenerate creatures responsible for it. I would keep my eyes shut till the sounds receded

toward the west. The horde was very close now—the air foul with their hoarse snarlings, and

the ground almost shaking with their alien-rhythmed footfalls. My breath nearly ceased to

come, and I put every ounce of will power into the task of holding my eyelids down.

I am not even yet willing to say whether what followed was a hideous actuality or only a

nightmare hallucination. The later action of the government, after my frantic appeals, would

tend to confirm it as a monstrous truth; but could not an hallucination have been repeated

under the quasi-hypnotic spell of that ancient, haunted, and shadowed town? Such places

have strange properties, and the legacy of insane legend might well have acted on more than

one human imagination amidst those dead, stench-cursed streets and huddles of rotting roofs

and crumbling steeples. Is it not possible that the germ of an actual contagious madness lurks

in the depths of that shadow over Innsmouth? Who can be sure of reality after hearing things

like the tale of old Zadok Allen? The government men never found poor Zadok, and have no

conjectures to make as to what became of him. Where does madness leave off and reality

begin? Is it possible that even my latest fear is sheer delusion?

But I must try to tell what I thought I saw that night under the mocking yellow moon—saw

surging and hopping down the Rowley road in plain sight in front of me as I crouched among

the wild brambles of that desolate railway cut. Of course my resolution to keep my eyes shut

had failed. It was foredoomed to failure—for who could crouch blindly while a legion of

croaking, baying entities of unknown source flopped noisomely past, scarcely more than a

hundred yards away?

I thought I was prepared for the worst, and I really ought to have been prepared considering

what I had seen before. My other pursuers had been accursedly abnormal—so should I not

have been ready to face a strengthening of the abnormal element; to look upon forms in

which there was no mixture of the normal at all? I did not open my eyes until the raucous

clamour came loudly from a point obviously straight ahead. Then I knew that a long section of

them must be plainly in sight where the sides of the cut flattened out and the road crossed the

track—and I could no longer keep myself from sampling whatever horror that leering yellow

moon might have to shew.

It was the end, for whatever remains to me of life on the surface of this earth, of every vestige

of mental peace and confidence in the integrity of Nature and of the human mind. Nothing that

I could have imagined—nothing, even, that I could have gathered had I credited old Zadok‘s

crazy tale in the most literal way—would be in any way comparable to the daemoniac,

blasphemous reality that I saw—or believe I saw. I have tried to hint what it was in order to

postpone the horror of writing it down baldly. Can it be possible that this planet has actually

spawned such things; that human eyes have truly seen, as objective flesh, what man has

hitherto known only in febrile phantasy and tenuous legend?

And yet I saw them in a limitless stream—flopping, hopping, croaking, bleating—surging

inhumanly through the spectral moonlight in a grotesque, malignant saraband of fantastic

nightmare. And some of them had tall tiaras of that nameless whitish-gold metal . . . and some

were strangely robed . . . and one, who led the way, was clad in a ghoulishly humped black

coat and striped trousers, and had a man‘s felt hat perched on the shapeless thing that

answered for a head. . . .

I think their predominant colour was a greyish-green, though they had white bellies. They

were mostly shiny and slippery, but the ridges of their backs were scaly. Their forms vaguely

suggested the anthropoid, while their heads were the heads of fish, with prodigious bulging

eyes that never closed. At the sides of their necks were palpitating gills, and their long paws

were webbed. They hopped irregularly, sometimes on two legs and sometimes on four. I was

somehow glad that they had no more than four limbs. Their croaking, baying voices, clearly

used for articulate speech, held all the dark shades of expression which their staring faces

lacked.

But for all of their monstrousness they were not unfamiliar to me. I knew too well what they

must be—for was not the memory of that evil tiara at Newburyport still fresh? They were the

blasphemous fish-frogs of the nameless design—living and horrible—and as I saw them I

knew also of what that humped, tiaraed priest in the black church basement had so

fearsomely reminded me. Their number was past guessing. It seemed to me that there were

limitless swarms of them—and certainly my momentary glimpse could have shewn only the

least fraction. In another instant everything was blotted out by a merciful fit of fainting; the first

I had ever had.

It was a gentle daylight rain that awaked me from my stupor in the brush-grown railway cut,

and when I staggered out to the roadway ahead I saw no trace of any prints in the fresh mud.

The fishy odour, too, was gone. Innsmouth‘s ruined roofs and toppling steeples loomed up

greyly toward the southeast, but not a living creature did I spy in all the desolate salt marshes

around. My watch was still going, and told me that the hour was past noon.

The reality of what I had been through was highly uncertain in my mind, but I felt that

something hideous lay in the background. I must get away from evil-shadowed Innsmouth—

and accordingly I began to test my cramped, wearied powers of locomotion. Despite

weakness, hunger, horror, and bewilderment I found myself after a long time able to walk; so

started slowly along the muddy road to Rowley. Before evening I was in the village, getting a

meal and providing myself with presentable clothes. I caught the night train to Arkham, and

the next day talked long and earnestly with government officials there; a process I later

repeated in Boston. With the main result of these colloquies the public is now familiar—and I

wish, for normality‘s sake, there were nothing more to tell. Perhaps it is madness that is

overtaking me—yet perhaps a greater horror—or a greater marvel—is reaching out.

As may well be imagined, I gave up most of the foreplanned features of the rest of my tour—

the scenic, architectural, and antiquarian diversions on which I had counted so heavily. Nor

did I dare look for that piece of strange jewellery said to be in the Miskatonic University

Museum. I did, however, improve my stay in Arkham by collecting some genealogical notes I

had long wished to possess; very rough and hasty data, it is true, but capable of good use

later on when I might have time to collate and codify them. The curator of the historical

society there—Mr. E. Lapham Peabody—was very courteous about assisting me, and

expressed unusual interest when I told him I was a grandson of Eliza Orne of Arkham, who

was born in 1867 and had married James Williamson of Ohio at the age of seventeen.

It seemed that a maternal uncle of mine had been there many years before on a quest much

like my own; and that my grandmother‘s family was a topic of some local curiosity. There had,

Mr. Peabody said, been considerable discussion about the marriage of her father, Benjamin

Orne, just after the Civil War; since the ancestry of the bride was peculiarly puzzling. That

bride was understood to have been an orphaned Marsh of New Hampshire—a cousin of the

Essex County Marshes—but her education had been in France and she knew very little of her

family. A guardian had deposited funds in a Boston bank to maintain her and her French

governess; but that guardian‘s name was unfamiliar to Arkham people, and in time he

dropped out of sight, so that the governess assumed his role by court appointment. The

Frenchwoman—now long dead—was very taciturn, and there were those who said she could

have told more than she did.

But the most baffling thing was the inability of anyone to place the recorded parents of the

young woman—Enoch and Lydia (Meserve) Marsh—among the known families of New

Hampshire. Possibly, many suggested, she was the natural daughter of some Marsh of

prominence—she certainly had the true Marsh eyes. Most of the puzzling was done after her

early death, which took place at the birth of my grandmother—her only child. Having formed

some disagreeable impressions connected with the name of Marsh, I did not welcome the

news that it belonged on my own ancestral tree; nor was I pleased by Mr. Peabody‘s

suggestion that I had the true Marsh eyes myself. However, I was grateful for data which I

knew would prove valuable; and took copious notes and lists of book references regarding the

well-documented Orne family.

I went directly home to Toledo from Boston, and later spent a month at Maumee recuperating

from my ordeal. In September I entered Oberlin for my final year, and from then till the next

June was busy with studies and other wholesome activities—reminded of the bygone terror

only by occasional official visits from government men in connexion with the campaign which

my pleas and evidence had started. Around the middle of July—just a year after the

Innsmouth experience—I spent a week with my late mother‘s family in Cleveland; checking

some of my new genealogical data with the various notes, traditions, and bits of heirloom

material in existence there, and seeing what kind of connected chart I could construct.

I did not exactly relish the task, for the atmosphere of the Williamson home had always

depressed me. There was a strain of morbidity there, and my mother had never encouraged

my visiting her parents as a child, although she always welcomed her father when he came to

Toledo. My Arkham-born grandmother had seemed strange and almost terrifying to me, and I

do not think I grieved when she disappeared. I was eight years old then, and it was said that

she had wandered off in grief after the suicide of my uncle Douglas, her eldest son. He had

shot himself after a trip to New England—the same trip, no doubt, which had caused him to

be recalled at the Arkham Historical Society.

This uncle had resembled her, and I had never liked him either. Something about the staring,

unwinking expression of both of them had given me a vague, unaccountable uneasiness. My

mother and uncle Walter had not looked like that. They were like their father, though poor little

cousin Lawrence—Walter‘s son—had been an almost perfect duplicate of his grandmother

before his condition took him to the permanent seclusion of a sanitarium at Canton. I had not

seen him in four years, but my uncle once implied that his state, both mental and physical,

was very bad. This worry had probably been a major cause of his mother‘s death two years

before.

My grandfather and his widowed son Walter now comprised the Cleveland household, but the

memory of older times hung thickly over it. I still disliked the place, and tried to get my

researches done as quickly as possible. Williamson records and traditions were supplied in

abundance by my grandfather; though for Orne material I had to depend on my uncle Walter,

who put at my disposal the contents of all his files, including notes, letters, cuttings,

heirlooms, photographs, and miniatures.

It was in going over the letters and pictures on the Orne side that I began to acquire a kind of

terror of my own ancestry. As I have said, my grandmother and uncle Douglas had always

disturbed me. Now, years after their passing, I gazed at their pictured faces with a measurably

heightened feeling of repulsion and alienation. I could not at first understand the change, but

gradually a horrible sort of comparison began to obtrude itself on my unconscious mind

despite the steady refusal of my consciousness to admit even the least suspicion of it. It was

clear that the typical expression of these faces now suggested something it had not

suggested before—something which would bring stark panic if too openly thought of.

But the worst shock came when my uncle shewed me the Orne jewellery in a downtown safe-

deposit vault. Some of the items were delicate and inspiring enough, but there was one box of

strange old pieces descended from my mysterious great-grandmother which my uncle was

almost reluctant to produce. They were, he said, of very grotesque and almost repulsive

design, and had never to his knowledge been publicly worn; though my grandmother used to

enjoy looking at them. Vague legends of bad luck clustered around them, and my great-

grandmother‘s French governess had said they ought not to be worn in New England, though

it would be quite safe to wear them in Europe.

As my uncle began slowly and grudgingly to unwrap the things he urged me not to be

shocked by the strangeness and frequent hideousness of the designs. Artists and

archaeologists who had seen them pronounced the workmanship superlatively and exotically

exquisite, though no one seemed able to define their exact material or assign them to any

specific art tradition. There were two armlets, a tiara, and a kind of pectoral; the latter having

in high relief certain figures of almost unbearable extravagance.

During this description I had kept a tight rein on my emotions, but my face must have

betrayed my mounting fears. My uncle looked concerned, and paused in his unwrapping to

study my countenance. I motioned to him to continue, which he did with renewed signs of

reluctance. He seemed to expect some demonstration when the first piece—the tiara—

became visible, but I doubt if he expected quite what actually happened. I did not expect it,

either, for I thought I was thoroughly forewarned regarding what the jewellery would turn out

to be. What I did was to faint silently away, just as I had done in that brier-choked railway cut

a year before.

From that day on my life has been a nightmare of brooding and apprehension, nor do I know

how much is hideous truth and how much madness. My great-grandmother had been a Marsh

of unknown source whose husband lived in Arkham—and did not old Zadok say that the

daughter of Obed Marsh by a monstrous mother was married to an Arkham man through a

trick? What was it the ancient toper had muttered about the likeness of my eyes to Captain

Obed‘s? In Arkham, too, the curator had told me I had the true Marsh eyes. Was Obed Marsh

my own great-great-grandfather? Who—or what—then, was my great-great-grandmother?

But perhaps this was all madness. Those whitish-gold ornaments might easily have been

bought from some Innsmouth sailor by the father of my great-grandmother, whoever he was.

And that look in the staring-eyed faces of my grandmother and self-slain uncle might be sheer

fancy on my part—sheer fancy, bolstered up by the Innsmouth shadow which had so darkly

coloured my imagination. But why had my uncle killed himself after an ancestral quest in New

England?

For more than two years I fought off these reflections with partial success. My father secured

me a place in an insurance office, and I buried myself in routine as deeply as possible. In the

winter of 1930–31, however, the dreams began. They were very sparse and insidious at first,

but increased in frequency and vividness as the weeks went by. Great watery spaces opened

out before me, and I seemed to wander through titanic sunken porticos and labyrinths of

weedy Cyclopean walls with grotesque fishes as my companions. Then the other shapes

began to appear, filling me with nameless horror the moment I awoke. But during the dreams

they did not horrify me at all—I was one with them; wearing their unhuman trappings, treading

their aqueous ways, and praying monstrously at their evil sea-bottom temples.

There was much more than I could remember, but even what I did remember each morning

would be enough to stamp me as a madman or a genius if ever I dared write it down. Some

frightful influence, I felt, was seeking gradually to drag me out of the sane world of wholesome

life into unnamable abysses of blackness and alienage; and the process told heavily on me.

My health and appearance grew steadily worse, till finally I was forced to give up my position

and adopt the static, secluded life of an invalid. Some odd nervous affliction had me in its grip,

and I found myself at times almost unable to shut my eyes.

It was then that I began to study the mirror with mounting alarm. The slow ravages of disease

are not pleasant to watch, but in my case there was something subtler and more puzzling in

the background. My father seemed to notice it, too, for he began looking at me curiously and

almost affrightedly. What was taking place in me? Could it be that I was coming to resemble

my grandmother and uncle Douglas?

One night I had a frightful dream in which I met my grandmother under the sea. She lived in a

phosphorescent palace of many terraces, with gardens of strange leprous corals and

grotesque brachiate efflorescences, and welcomed me with a warmth that may have been

sardonic. She had changed—as those who take to the water change—and told me she had

never died. Instead, she had gone to a spot her dead son had learned about, and had leaped

to a realm whose wonders—destined for him as well—he had spurned with a smoking pistol.

This was to be my realm, too—I could not escape it. I would never die, but would live with

those who had lived since before man ever walked the earth.

I met also that which had been her grandmother. For eighty thousand years Pth‘thya-l‘yi had

lived in Y‘ha-nthlei, and thither she had gone back after Obed Marsh was dead. Y‘ha-nthlei

was not destroyed when the upper-earth men shot death into the sea. It was hurt, but not

destroyed. The Deep Ones could never be destroyed, even though the palaeogean magic of

the forgotten Old Ones might sometimes check them. For the present they would rest; but

some day, if they remembered, they would rise again for the tribute Great Cthulhu craved. It

would be a city greater than Innsmouth next time. They had planned to spread, and had

brought up that which would help them, but now they must wait once more. For bringing the

upper-earth men‘s death I must do a penance, but that would not be heavy. This was the

dream in which I saw a shoggoth for the first time, and the sight set me awake in a frenzy of

screaming. That morning the mirror definitely told me I had acquired the Innsmouth look.

So far I have not shot myself as my uncle Douglas did. I bought an automatic and almost took

the step, but certain dreams deterred me. The tense extremes of horror are lessening, and I

feel queerly drawn toward the unknown sea-deeps instead of fearing them. I hear and do

strange things in sleep, and awake with a kind of exaltation instead of terror. I do not believe I

need to wait for the full change as most have waited. If I did, my father would probably shut

me up in a sanitarium as my poor little cousin is shut up. Stupendous and unheard-of

splendours await me below, and I shall seek them soon. Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! Iä! Iä! No, I

shall not shoot myself—I cannot be made to shoot myself!

I shall plan my cousin‘s escape from that Canton madhouse, and together we shall go to

marvel-shadowed Innsmouth. We shall swim out to that brooding reef in the sea and dive

down through black abysses to Cyclopean and many-columned Y‘ha-nthlei, and in that lair of

the Deep Ones we shall dwell amidst wonder and glory for ever.

The Dreams in the Witch House

(1932)

Whether the dreams brought on the fever or the fever brought on the dreams Walter Gilman

did not know. Behind everything crouched the brooding, festering horror of the ancient town,

and of the mouldy, unhallowed garret gable where he wrote and studied and wrestled with

figures and formulae when he was not tossing on the meagre iron bed. His ears were growing

sensitive to a preternatural and intolerable degree, and he had long ago stopped the cheap

mantel clock whose ticking had come to seem like a thunder of artillery. At night the subtle

stirring of the black city outside, the sinister scurrying of rats in the wormy partitions, and the

creaking of hidden timbers in the centuried house, were enough to give him a sense of

strident pandemonium. The darkness always teemed with unexplained sound—and yet he

sometimes shook with fear lest the noises he heard should subside and allow him to hear

certain other, fainter, noises which he suspected were lurking behind them.

He was in the changeless, legend-haunted city of Arkham, with its clustering gambrel roofs

that sway and sag over attics where witches hid from the King‘s men in the dark, olden days

of the Province. Nor was any spot in that city more steeped in macabre memory than the

gable room which harboured him—for it was this house and this room which had likewise

harboured old Keziah Mason, whose flight from Salem Gaol at the last no one was ever able

to explain. That was in 1692—the gaoler had gone mad and babbled of a small, white-fanged

furry thing which scuttled out of Keziah‘s cell, and not even Cotton Mather could explain the

curves and angles smeared on the grey stone walls with some red, sticky fluid.

Possibly Gilman ought not to have studied so hard. Non-Euclidean calculus and quantum

physics are enough to stretch any brain; and when one mixes them with folklore, and tries to

trace a strange background of multi-dimensional reality behind the ghoulish hints of the

Gothic tales and the wild whispers of the chimney-corner, one can hardly expect to be wholly

free from mental tension. Gilman came from Haverhill, but it was only after he had entered

college in Arkham that he began to connect his mathematics with the fantastic legends of

elder magic. Something in the air of the hoary town worked obscurely on his imagination. The

professors at Miskatonic had urged him to slacken up, and had voluntarily cut down his

course at several points. Moreover, they had stopped him from consulting the dubious old

books on forbidden secrets that were kept under lock and key in a vault at the university

library. But all these precautions came late in the day, so that Gilman had some terrible hints

from the dreaded Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred, the fragmentary Book of Eibon,and the

suppressed Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt to correlate with his abstract formulae on

the properties of space and the linkage of dimensions known and unknown.

He knew his room was in the old Witch House—that, indeed, was why he had taken it. There

was much in the Essex County records about Keziah Mason‘s trial, and what she had

admitted under pressure to the Court of Oyer and Terminer had fascinated Gilman beyond all

reason. She had told Judge Hathorne of lines and curves that could be made to point out

directions leading through the walls of space to other spaces beyond, and had implied that

such lines and curves were frequently used at certain midnight meetings in the dark valley of

the white stone beyond Meadow Hill and on the unpeopled island in the river. She had spoken

also of the Black Man, of her oath, and of her new secret name of Nahab. Then she had

drawn those devices on the walls of her cell and vanished.

Gilman believed strange things about Keziah, and had felt a queer thrill on learning that her

dwelling was still standing after more than 235 years. When he heard the hushed Arkham

whispers about Keziah‘s persistent presence in the old house and the narrow streets, about

the irregular human tooth-marks left on certain sleepers in that and other houses, about the

childish cries heard near May-Eve, and Hallowmass, about the stench often noted in the old

house‘s attic just after those dreaded seasons, and about the small, furry, sharp-toothed thing

which haunted the mouldering structure and the town and nuzzled people curiously in the

black hours before dawn, he resolved to live in the place at any cost. A room was easy to

secure; for the house was unpopular, hard to rent, and long given over to cheap lodgings.

Gilman could not have told what he expected to find there, but he knew he wanted to be in

the building where some circumstance had more or less suddenly given a mediocre old

woman of the seventeenth century an insight into mathematical depths perhaps beyond the

utmost modern delvings of Planck, Heisenberg, Einstein, and de Sitter.

He studied the timber and plaster walls for traces of cryptic designs at every accessible spot

where the paper had peeled, and within a week managed to get the eastern attic room where

Keziah was held to have practiced her spells. It had been vacant from the first—for no one

had ever been willing to stay there long—but the Polish landlord had grown wary about

renting it. Yet nothing whatever happened to Gilman till about the time of the fever. No ghostly

Keziah flitted through the sombre halls and chambers, no small furry thing crept into his

dismal eyrie to nuzzle him, and no record of the witch‘s incantations rewarded his constant

search. Sometimes he would take walks through shadowy tangles of unpaved musty-smelling

lanes where eldritch brown houses of unknown age leaned and tottered and leered mockingly

through narrow, small-paned windows. Here he knew strange things had happened once, and

there was a faint suggestion behind the surface that everything of that monstrous past might

not—at least in the darkest, narrowest, and most intricately crooked alleys—have utterly

perished. He also rowed out twice to the ill-regarded island in the river, and made a sketch of

the singular angles described by the moss-grown rows of grey standing stones whose origin

was so obscure and immemorial.

Gilman‘s room was of good size but queerly irregular shape; the north wall slanting

perceptibly inward from the outer to the inner end, while the low ceiling slanted gently

downward in the same direction. Aside from an obvious rat-hole and the signs of other

stopped-up ones, there was no access—nor any appearance of a former avenue of access—

to the space which must have existed between the slanting wall and the straight outer wall on

the house‘s north side, though a view from the exterior shewed where a window had been

boarded up at a very remote date. The loft above the ceiling—which must have had a slanting

floor—was likewise inaccessible. When Gilman climbed up a ladder to the cobwebbed level

loft above the rest of the attic he found vestiges of a bygone aperture tightly and heavily

covered with ancient planking and secured by the stout wooden pegs common in colonial

carpentry. No amount of persuasion, however, could induce the stolid landlord to let him

investigate either of these two closed spaces.

As time wore along, his absorption in the irregular wall and ceiling of his room increased; for

he began to read into the odd angles a mathematical significance which seemed to offer

vague clues regarding their purpose. Old Keziah, he reflected, might have had excellent

reasons for living in a room with peculiar angles; for was it not through certain angles that she

claimed to have gone outside the boundaries of the world of space we know? His interest

gradually veered away from the unplumbed voids beyond the slanting surfaces, since it now

appeared that the purpose of those surfaces concerned the side he was already on.

The touch of brain-fever and the dreams began early in February. For some time, apparently,

the curious angles of Gilman‘s room had been having a strange, almost hypnotic effect on

him; and as the bleak winter advanced he had found himself staring more and more intently at

the corner where the down-slanting ceiling met the inward-slanting wall. About this period his

inability to concentrate on his formal studies worried him considerably, his apprehensions

about the mid-year examinations being very acute. But the exaggerated sense of hearing was

scarcely less annoying. Life had become an insistent and almost unendurable cacophony,

and there was that constant, terrifying impression of other sounds—perhaps from regions

beyond life—trembling on the very brink of audibility. So far as concrete noises went, the rats

in the ancient partitions were the worst. Sometimes their scratching seemed not only furtive

but deliberate. When it came from beyond the slanting north wall it was mixed with a sort of

dry rattling—and when it came from the century-closed loft above the slanting ceiling Gilman

always braced himself as if expecting some horror which only bided its time before

descending to engulf him utterly.

The dreams were wholly beyond the pale of sanity, and Gilman felt that they must be a result,

jointly, of his studies in mathematics and in folklore. He had been thinking too much about the

vague regions which his formulae told him must lie beyond the three dimensions we know,

and about the possibility that old Keziah Mason—guided by some influence past all

conjecture—had actually found the gate to those regions. The yellowed county records

containing her testimony and that of her accusers were so damnably suggestive of things

beyond human experience—and the descriptions of the darting little furry object which served

as her familiar were so painfully realistic despite their incredible details.

That object—no larger than a good-sized rat and quaintly called by the townspeople ―Brown

Jenkin‖—seemed to have been the fruit of a remarkable case of sympathetic herd-delusion,

for in 1692 no less than eleven persons had testified to glimpsing it. There were recent

rumours, too, with a baffling and disconcerting amount of agreement. Witnesses said it had

long hair and the shape of a rat, but that its sharp-toothed, bearded face was evilly human

while its paws were like tiny human hands. It took messages betwixt old Keziah and the devil,

and was nursed on the witch‘s blood—which it sucked like a vampire. Its voice was a kind of

loathsome titter, and it could speak all languages. Of all the bizarre monstrosities in Gilman‘s

dreams, nothing filled him with greater panic and nausea than this blasphemous and

diminutive hybrid, whose image flitted across his vision in a form a thousandfold more hateful

than anything his waking mind had deduced from the ancient records and the modern

whispers.

Gilman‘s dreams consisted largely in plunges through limitless abysses of inexplicably

coloured twilight and bafflingly disordered sound; abysses whose material and gravitational

properties, and whose relation to his own entity, he could not even begin to explain. He did

not walk or climb, fly or swim, crawl or wriggle; yet always experienced a mode of motion

partly voluntary and partly involuntary. Of his own condition he could not well judge, for sight

of his arms, legs, and torso seemed always cut off by some odd disarrangement of

perspective; but he felt that his physical organisation and faculties were somehow

marvellously transmuted and obliquely projected—though not without a certain grotesque

relationship to his normal proportions and properties.

The abysses were by no means vacant, being crowded with indescribably angled masses of

alien-hued substance, some of which appeared to be organic while others seemed inorganic.

A few of the organic objects tended to awake vague memories in the back of his mind, though

he could form no conscious idea of what they mockingly resembled or suggested. In the later

dreams he began to distinguish separate categories into which the organic objects appeared

to be divided, and which seemed to involve in each case a radically different species of

conduct-pattern and basic motivation. Of these categories one seemed to him to include

objects slightly less illogical and irrelevant in their motions than the members of the other

categories.

All the objects—organic and inorganic alike—were totally beyond description or even

comprehension. Gilman sometimes compared the inorganic masses to prisms, labyrinths,

clusters of cubes and planes, and Cyclopean buildings; and the organic things struck him

variously as groups of bubbles, octopi, centipedes, living Hindoo idols, and intricate

Arabesques roused into a kind of ophidian animation. Everything he saw was unspeakably

menacing and horrible; and whenever one of the organic entities appeared by its motions to

be noticing him, he felt a stark, hideous fright which generally jolted him awake. Of how the

organic entities moved, he could tell no more than of how he moved himself. In time he

observed a further mystery—the tendency of certain entities to appear suddenly out of empty

space, or to disappear totally with equal suddenness. The shrieking, roaring confusion of

sound which permeated the abysses was past all analysis as to pitch, timbre, or rhythm; but

seemed to be synchronous with vague visual changes in all the indefinite objects, organic and

inorganic alike. Gilman had a constant sense of dread that it might rise to some unbearable

degree of intensity during one or another of its obscure, relentlessly inevitable fluctuations.

But it was not in these vortices of complete alienage that he saw Brown Jenkin. That shocking

little horror was reserved for certain lighter, sharper dreams which assailed him just before he

dropped into the fullest depths of sleep. He would be lying in the dark fighting to keep awake

when a faint lambent glow would seem to shimmer around the centuried room, shewing in a

violet mist the convergence of angled planes which had seized his brain so insidiously. The

horror would appear to pop out of the rat-hole in the corner and patter toward him over the

sagging, wide-planked floor with evil expectancy in its tiny, bearded human face—but

mercifully, this dream always melted away before the object got close enough to nuzzle him. It

had hellishly long, sharp, canine teeth. Gilman tried to stop up the rat-hole every day, but

each night the real tenants of the partitions would gnaw away the obstruction, whatever it

might be. Once he had the landlord nail tin over it, but the next night the rats gnawed a fresh

hole—in making which they pushed or dragged out into the room a curious little fragment of

bone.

Gilman did not report his fever to the doctor, for he knew he could not pass the examinations

if ordered to the college infirmary when every moment was needed for cramming. As it was,

he failed in Calculus D and Advanced General Psychology, though not without hope of

making up lost ground before the end of the term. It was in March when the fresh element

entered his lighter preliminary dreaming, and the nightmare shape of Brown Jenkin began to

be companioned by the nebulous blur which grew more and more to resemble a bent old

woman. This addition disturbed him more than he could account for, but finally he decided

that it was like an ancient crone whom he had twice actually encountered in the dark tangle of

lanes near the abandoned wharves. On those occasions the evil, sardonic, and seemingly

unmotivated stare of the beldame had set him almost shivering—especially the first time,

when an overgrown rat darting across the shadowed mouth of a neighbouring alley had made

him think irrationally of Brown Jenkin. Now, he reflected, those nervous fears were being

mirrored in his disordered dreams.

That the influence of the old house was unwholesome, he could not deny; but traces of his

early morbid interest still held him there. He argued that the fever alone was responsible for

his nightly phantasies, and that when the touch abated he would be free from the monstrous

visions. Those visions, however, were of abhorrent vividness and convincingness, and

whenever he awaked he retained a vague sense of having undergone much more than he

remembered. He was hideously sure that in unrecalled dreams he had talked with both Brown

Jenkin and the old woman, and that they had been urging him to go somewhere with them

and to meet a third being of greater potency.

Toward the end of March he began to pick up in his mathematics, though other studies

bothered him increasingly. He was getting an intuitive knack for solving Riemannian

equations, and astonished Professor Upham by his comprehension of fourth-dimensional and

other problems which had floored all the rest of the class. One afternoon there was a

discussion of possible freakish curvatures in space, and of theoretical points of approach or

even contact between our part of the cosmos and various other regions as distant as the

farthest stars or the trans-galactic gulfs themselves—or even as fabulously remote as the

tentatively conceivable cosmic units beyond the whole Einsteinian space-time continuum.

Gilman‘s handling of this theme filled everyone with admiration, even though some of his

hypothetical illustrations caused an increase in the always plentiful gossip about his nervous

and solitary eccentricity. What made the students shake their heads was his sober theory that

a man might—given mathematical knowledge admittedly beyond all likelihood of human

acquirement—step deliberately from the earth to any other celestial body which might lie at

one of an infinity of specific points in the cosmic pattern.

Such a step, he said, would require only two stages; first, a passage out of the three-

dimensional sphere we know, and second, a passage back to the three-dimensional sphere at

another point, perhaps one of infinite remoteness. That this could be accomplished without

loss of life was in many cases conceivable. Any being from any part of three-dimensional

space could probably survive in the fourth dimension; and its survival of the second stage

would depend upon what alien part of three-dimensional space it might select for its re-entry.

Denizens of some planets might be able to live on certain others—even planets belonging to

other galaxies, or to similar-dimensional phases of other space-time continua—though of

course there must be vast numbers of mutually uninhabitable even though mathematically

juxtaposed bodies or zones of space.

It was also possible that the inhabitants of a given dimensional realm could survive entry to

many unknown and incomprehensible realms of additional or indefinitely multiplied

dimensions—be they within or outside the given space-time continuum—and that the

converse would be likewise true. This was a matter for speculation, though one could be fairly

certain that the type of mutation involved in a passage from any given dimensional plane to

the next higher plane would not be destructive of biological integrity as we understand it.

Gilman could not be very clear about his reasons for this last assumption, but his haziness

here was more than overbalanced by his clearness on other complex points. Professor

Upham especially liked his demonstration of the kinship of higher mathematics to certain

phases of magical lore transmitted down the ages from an ineffable antiquity—human or pre-

human—whose knowledge of the cosmos and its laws was greater than ours.

Around the first of April Gilman worried considerably because his slow fever did not abate. He

was also troubled by what some of his fellow-lodgers said about his sleep-walking. It seemed

that he was often absent from his bed, and that the creaking of his floor at certain hours of the

night was remarked by the man in the room below. This fellow also spoke of hearing the tread

of shod feet in the night; but Gilman was sure he must have been mistaken in this, since

shoes as well as other apparel were always precisely in place in the morning. One could

develop all sorts of aural delusions in this morbid old house—for did not Gilman himself, even

in daylight, now feel certain that noises other than rat-scratchings came from the black voids

beyond the slanting wall and above the slanting ceiling? His pathologically sensitive ears

began to listen for faint footfalls in the immemorially sealed loft overhead, and sometimes the

illusion of such things was agonisingly realistic.

However, he knew that he had actually become a somnambulist; for twice at night his room

had been found vacant, though with all his clothing in place. Of this he had been assured by

Frank Elwood, the one fellow-student whose poverty forced him to room in this squalid and

unpopular house. Elwood had been studying in the small hours and had come up for help on

a differential equation, only to find Gilman absent. It had been rather presumptuous of him to

open the unlocked door after knocking had failed to rouse a response, but he had needed the

help very badly and thought that his host would not mind a gentle prodding awake. On neither

occasion, though, had Gilman been there—and when told of the matter he wondered where

he could have been wandering, barefoot and with only his night-clothes on. He resolved to

investigate the matter if reports of his sleep-walking continued, and thought of sprinkling flour

on the floor of the corridor to see where his footsteps might lead. The door was the only

conceivable egress, for there was no possible foothold outside the narrow window.

As April advanced Gilman‘s fever-sharpened ears were disturbed by the whining prayers of a

superstitious loomfixer named Joe Mazurewicz, who had a room on the ground floor.

Mazurewicz had told long, rambling stories about the ghost of old Keziah and the furry, sharp-

fanged, nuzzling thing, and had said he was so badly haunted at times that only his silver

crucifix—given him for the purpose by Father Iwanicki of St. Stanislaus‘ Church—could bring

him relief. Now he was praying because the Witches‘ Sabbath was drawing near. May-Eve

was Walpurgis-Night, when hell‘s blackest evil roamed the earth and all the slaves of Satan

gathered for nameless rites and deeds. It was always a very bad time in Arkham, even though

the fine folks up in Miskatonic Avenue and High and Saltonstall Streets pretended to know

nothing about it. There would be bad doings—and a child or two would probably be missing.

Joe knew about such things, for his grandmother in the old country had heard tales from her

grandmother. It was wise to pray and count one‘s beads at this season. For three months

Keziah and Brown Jenkin had not been near Joe‘s room, nor near Paul Choynski‘s room, nor

anywhere else—and it meant no good when they held off like that. They must be up to

something.

Gilman dropped in at a doctor‘s office on the 16th of the month, and was surprised to find his

temperature was not as high as he had feared. The physician questioned him sharply, and

advised him to see a nerve specialist. On reflection, he was glad he had not consulted the still

more inquisitive college doctor. Old Waldron, who had curtailed his activities before, would

have made him take a rest—an impossible thing now that he was so close to great results in

his equations. He was certainly near the boundary between the known universe and the

fourth dimension, and who could say how much farther he might go?

But even as these thoughts came to him he wondered at the source of his strange

confidence. Did all of this perilous sense of imminence come from the formulae on the sheets

he covered day by day? The soft, stealthy, imaginary footsteps in the sealed loft above were

unnerving. And now, too, there was a growing feeling that somebody was constantly

persuading him to do something terrible which he could not do. How about the

somnambulism? Where did he go sometimes in the night? And what was that faint suggestion

of sound which once in a while seemed to trickle through the maddening confusion of

identifiable sounds even in broad daylight and full wakefulness? Its rhythm did not correspond

to anything on earth, unless perhaps to the cadence of one or two unmentionable Sabbat-

chants, and sometimes he feared it corresponded to certain attributes of the vague shrieking

or roaring in those wholly alien abysses of dream.

The dreams were meanwhile getting to be atrocious. In the lighter preliminary phase the evil

old woman was now of fiendish distinctness, and Gilman knew she was the one who had

frightened him in the slums. Her bent back, long nose, and shrivelled chin were unmistakable,

and her shapeless brown garments were like those he remembered. The expression on her

face was one of hideous malevolence and exultation, and when he awaked he could recall a

croaking voice that persuaded and threatened. He must meet the Black Man, and go with

them all to the throne of Azathoth at the centre of ultimate Chaos. That was what she said. He

must sign in his own blood the book of Azathoth and take a new secret name now that his

independent delvings had gone so far. What kept him from going with her and Brown Jenkin

and the other to the throne of Chaos where the thin flutes pipe mindlessly was the fact that he

had seen the name ―Azathoth‖ in the Necronomicon, and knew it stood for a primal evil too

horrible for description.

The old woman always appeared out of thin air near the corner where the downward slant

met the inward slant. She seemed to crystallise at a point closer to the ceiling than to the

floor, and every night she was a little nearer and more distinct before the dream shifted.

Brown Jenkin, too, was always a little nearer at the last, and its yellowish-white fangs

glistened shockingly in that unearthly violet phosphorescence. Its shrill loathsome tittering

stuck more and more in Gilman‘s head, and he could remember in the morning how it had

pronounced the words ―Azathoth‖ and ―Nyarlathotep‖.

In the deeper dreams everything was likewise more distinct, and Gilman felt that the twilight

abysses around him were those of the fourth dimension. Those organic entities whose

motions seemed least flagrantly irrelevant and unmotivated were probably projections of life-

forms from our own planet, including human beings. What the others were in their own

dimensional sphere or spheres he dared not try to think. Two of the less irrelevantly moving

things—a rather large congeries of iridescent, prolately spheroidal bubbles and a very much

smaller polyhedron of unknown colours and rapidly shifting surface angles—seemed to take

notice of him and follow him about or float ahead as he changed position among the titan

prisms, labyrinths, cube-and-plane clusters, and quasi-buildings; and all the while the vague

shrieking and roaring waxed louder and louder, as if approaching some monstrous climax of

utterly unendurable intensity.

During the night of April 19–20 the new development occurred. Gilman was half-involuntarily

moving about in the twilight abysses with the bubble-mass and the small polyhedron floating

ahead, when he noticed the peculiarly regular angles formed by the edges of some gigantic

neighbouring prism-clusters. In another second he was out of the abyss and standing

tremulously on a rocky hillside bathed in intense, diffused green light. He was barefooted and

in his night-clothes, and when he tried to walk discovered that he could scarcely lift his feet. A

swirling vapour hid everything but the immediate sloping terrain from sight, and he shrank

from the thought of the sounds that might surge out of that vapour.

Then he saw the two shapes laboriously crawling toward him—the old woman and the little

furry thing. The crone strained up to her knees and managed to cross her arms in a singular

fashion, while Brown Jenkin pointed in a certain direction with a horribly anthropoid fore paw

which it raised with evident difficulty. Spurred by an impulse he did not originate, Gilman

dragged himself forward along a course determined by the angle of the old woman‘s arms

and the direction of the small monstrosity‘s paw, and before he had shuffled three steps he

was back in the twilight abysses. Geometrical shapes seethed around him, and he fell dizzily

and interminably. At last he woke in his bed in the crazily angled garret of the eldritch old

house.

He was good for nothing that morning, and stayed away from all his classes. Some unknown

attraction was pulling his eyes in a seemingly irrelevant direction, for he could not help staring

at a certain vacant spot on the floor. As the day advanced the focus of his unseeing eyes

changed position, and by noon he had conquered the impulse to stare at vacancy. About two

o‘clock he went out for lunch, and as he threaded the narrow lanes of the city he found

himself turning always to the southeast. Only an effort halted him at a cafeteria in Church

Street, and after the meal he felt the unknown pull still more strongly.

He would have to consult a nerve specialist after all—perhaps there was a connexion with his

somnambulism—but meanwhile he might at least try to break the morbid spell himself.

Undoubtedly he could still manage to walk away from the pull; so with great resolution he

headed against it and dragged himself deliberately north along Garrison Street. By the time

he had reached the bridge over the Miskatonic he was in a cold perspiration, and he clutched

at the iron railing as he gazed upstream at the ill-regarded island whose regular lines of

ancient standing stones brooded sullenly in the afternoon sunlight.

Then he gave a start. For there was a clearly visible living figure on that desolate island, and

a second glance told him it was certainly the strange old woman whose sinister aspect had

worked itself so disastrously into his dreams. The tall grass near her was moving, too, as if

some other living thing were crawling close to the ground. When the old woman began to turn

toward him he fled precipitately off the bridge and into the shelter of the town‘s labyrinthine

waterfront alleys. Distant though the island was, he felt that a monstrous and invincible evil

could flow from the sardonic stare of that bent, ancient figure in brown.

The southeastward pull still held, and only with tremendous resolution could Gilman drag

himself into the old house and up the rickety stairs. For hours he sat silent and aimless, with

his eyes shifting gradually westward. About six o‘clock his sharpened ears caught the whining

prayers of Joe Mazurewicz two floors below, and in desperation he seized his hat and walked

out into the sunset-golden streets, letting the now directly southward pull carry him where it

might. An hour later darkness found him in the open fields beyond Hangman‘s Brook, with the

glimmering spring stars shining ahead. The urge to walk was gradually changing to an urge to

leap mystically into space, and suddenly he realised just where the source of the pull lay.

It was in the sky. A definite point among the stars had a claim on him and was calling him.

Apparently it was a point somewhere between Hydra and Argo Navis, and he knew that he

had been urged toward it ever since he had awaked soon after dawn. In the morning it had

been underfoot; afternoon found it rising in the southeast, and now it was roughly south but

wheeling toward the west. What was the meaning of this new thing? Was he going mad? How

long would it last? Again mustering his resolution, Gilman turned and dragged himself back to

the sinister old house.

Mazurewicz was waiting for him at the door, and seemed both anxious and reluctant to

whisper some fresh bit of superstition. It was about the witch light. Joe had been out

celebrating the night before—it was Patriots‘ Day in Massachusetts—and had come home

after midnight. Looking up at the house from outside, he had thought at first that Gilman‘s

window was dark; but then he had seen the faint violet glow within. He wanted to warn the

gentleman about that glow, for everybody in Arkham knew it was Keziah‘s witch light which

played near Brown Jenkin and the ghost of the old crone herself. He had not mentioned this

before, but now he must tell about it because it meant that Keziah and her long-toothed

familiar were haunting the young gentleman. Sometimes he and Paul Choynski and Landlord

Dombrowski thought they saw that light seeping out of cracks in the sealed loft above the

young gentleman‘s room, but they had all agreed not to talk about that. However, it would be

better for the gentleman to take another room and get a crucifix from some good priest like

Father Iwanicki.

As the man rambled on Gilman felt a nameless panic clutch at his throat. He knew that Joe

must have been half drunk when he came home the night before, yet this mention of a violet

light in the garret window was of frightful import. It was a lambent glow of this sort which

always played about the old woman and the small furry thing in those lighter, sharper dreams

which prefaced his plunge into unknown abysses, and the thought that a wakeful second

person could see the dream-luminance was utterly beyond sane harbourage. Yet where had

the fellow got such an odd notion? Had he himself talked as well as walked around the house

in his sleep? No, Joe said, he had not—but he must check up on this. Perhaps Frank Elwood

could tell him something, though he hated to ask.

Fever—wild dreams—somnambulism—illusions of sounds—a pull toward a point in the sky—

and now a suspicion of insane sleep-talking! He must stop studying, see a nerve specialist,

and take himself in hand. When he climbed to the second story he paused at Elwood‘s door

but saw that the other youth was out. Reluctantly he continued up to his garret room and sat

down in the dark. His gaze was still pulled to the southwest, but he also found himself

listening intently for some sound in the closed loft above, and half imagining that an evil violet

light seeped down through an infinitesimal crack in the low, slanting ceiling.

That night as Gilman slept the violet light broke upon him with heightened intensity, and the

old witch and small furry thing—getting closer than ever before—mocked him with inhuman

squeals and devilish gestures. He was glad to sink into the vaguely roaring twilight abysses,

though the pursuit of that iridescent bubble-congeries and that kaleidoscopic little polyhedron

was menacing and irritating. Then came the shift as vast converging planes of a slippery-

looking substance loomed above and below him—a shift which ended in a flash of delirium

and a blaze of unknown, alien light in which yellow, carmine, and indigo were madly and

inextricably blended.

He was half lying on a high, fantastically balustraded terrace above a boundless jungle of

outlandish, incredible peaks, balanced planes, domes, minarets, horizontal discs poised on

pinnacles, and numberless forms of still greater wildness—some of stone and some of

metal—which glittered gorgeously in the mixed, almost blistering glare from a polychromatic

sky. Looking upward he saw three stupendous discs of flame, each of a different hue, and at a

different height above an infinitely distant curving horizon of low mountains. Behind him tiers

of higher terraces towered aloft as far as he could see. The city below stretched away to the

limits of vision, and he hoped that no sound would well up from it.

The pavement from which he easily raised himself was of a veined, polished stone beyond his

power to identify, and the tiles were cut in bizarre-angled shapes which struck him as less

asymmetrical than based on some unearthly symmetry whose laws he could not comprehend.

The balustrade was chest-high, delicate, and fantastically wrought, while along the rail were

ranged at short intervals little figures of grotesque design and exquisite workmanship. They,

like the whole balustrade, seemed to be made of some sort of shining metal whose colour

could not be guessed in this chaos of mixed effulgences; and their nature utterly defied

conjecture. They represented some ridged, barrel-shaped object with thin horizontal arms

radiating spoke-like from a central ring, and with vertical knobs or bulbs projecting from the

head and base of the barrel. Each of these knobs was the hub of a system of five long, flat,

triangularly tapering arms arranged around it like the arms of a starfish—nearly horizontal, but

curving slightly away from the central barrel. The base of the bottom knob was fused to the

long railing with so delicate a point of contact that several figures had been broken off and

were missing. The figures were about four and a half inches in height, while the spiky arms

gave them a maximum diameter of about two and a half inches.

When Gilman stood up the tiles felt hot to his bare feet. He was wholly alone, and his first act

was to walk to the balustrade and look dizzily down at the endless, Cyclopean city almost two

thousand feet below. As he listened he thought a rhythmic confusion of faint musical pipings

covering a wide tonal range welled up from the narrow streets beneath, and he wished he

might discern the denizens of the place. The sight turned him giddy after a while, so that he

would have fallen to the pavement had he not clutched instinctively at the lustrous balustrade.

His right hand fell on one of the projecting figures, the touch seeming to steady him slightly. It

was too much, however, for the exotic delicacy of the metal-work, and the spiky figure

snapped off under his grasp. Still half-dazed, he continued to clutch it as his other hand

seized a vacant space on the smooth railing.

But now his oversensitive ears caught something behind him, and he looked back across the

level terrace. Approaching him softly though without apparent furtiveness were five figures,

two of which were the sinister old woman and the fanged, furry little animal. The other three

were what sent him unconscious—for they were living entities about eight feet high, shaped

precisely like the spiky images on the balustrade, and propelling themselves by a spider-like

wriggling of their lower set of starfish-arms.

Gilman awakened in his bed, drenched by a cold perspiration and with a smarting sensation

in his face, hands, and feet. Springing to the floor, he washed and dressed in frantic haste, as

if it were necessary for him to get out of the house as quickly as possible. He did not know

where he wished to go, but felt that once more he would have to sacrifice his classes. The

odd pull toward that spot in the sky between Hydra and Argo had abated, but another of even

greater strength had taken its place. Now he felt that he must go north—infinitely north. He

dreaded to cross the bridge that gave a view of the desolate island in the Miskatonic, so went

over the Peabody Avenue bridge. Very often he stumbled, for his eyes and ears were chained

to an extremely lofty point in the blank blue sky.

After about an hour he got himself under better control, and saw that he was far from the city.

All around him stretched the bleak emptiness of salt marshes, while the narrow road ahead

led to Innsmouth—that ancient, half-deserted town which Arkham people were so curiously

unwilling to visit. Though the northward pull had not diminished, he resisted it as he had

resisted the other pull, and finally found that he could almost balance the one against the

other. Plodding back to town and getting some coffee at a soda fountain, he dragged himself

into the public library and browsed aimlessly among the lighter magazines. Once he met

some friends who remarked how oddly sunburned he looked, but he did not tell them of his

walk. At three o‘clock he took some lunch at a restaurant, noting meanwhile that the pull had

either lessened or divided itself. After that he killed the time at a cheap cinema show, seeing

the inane performance over and over again without paying any attention to it.

About nine at night he drifted homeward and stumbled into the ancient house. Joe

Mazurewicz was whining unintelligible prayers, and Gilman hastened up to his own garret

chamber without pausing to see if Elwood was in. It was when he turned on the feeble electric

light that the shock came. At once he saw there was something on the table which did not

belong there, and a second look left no room for doubt. Lying on its side—for it could not

stand up alone—was the exotic spiky figure which in his monstrous dream he had broken off

the fantastic balustrade. No detail was missing. The ridged, barrel-shaped centre, the thin,

radiating arms, the knobs at each end, and the flat, slightly outward-curving starfish-arms

spreading from those knobs—all were there. In the electric light the colour seemed to be a

kind of iridescent grey veined with green, and Gilman could see amidst his horror and

bewilderment that one of the knobs ended in a jagged break corresponding to its former point

of attachment to the dream-railing.

Only his tendency toward a dazed stupor prevented him from screaming aloud. This fusion of

dream and reality was too much to bear. Still dazed, he clutched at the spiky thing and

staggered downstairs to Landlord Dombrowski‘s quarters. The whining prayers of the

superstitious loomfixer were still sounding through the mouldy halls, but Gilman did not mind

them now. The landlord was in, and greeted him pleasantly. No, he had not seen that thing

before and did not know anything about it. But his wife had said she found a funny tin thing in

one of the beds when she fixed the rooms at noon, and maybe that was it. Dombrowski called

her, and she waddled in. Yes, that was the thing. She had found it in the young gentleman‘s

bed—on the side next the wall. It had looked very queer to her, but of course the young

gentleman had lots of queer things in his room—books and curios and pictures and markings

on paper. She certainly knew nothing about it.

So Gilman climbed upstairs again in a mental turmoil, convinced that he was either still

dreaming or that his somnambulism had run to incredible extremes and led him to

depredations in unknown places. Where had he got this outré thing? He did not recall seeing

it in any museum in Arkham. It must have been somewhere, though; and the sight of it as he

snatched it in his sleep must have caused the odd dream-picture of the balustraded terrace.

Next day he would make some very guarded inquiries—and perhaps see the nerve specialist.

Meanwhile he would try to keep track of his somnambulism. As he went upstairs and across

the garret hall he sprinkled about some flour which he had borrowed—with a frank admission

as to its purpose—from the landlord. He had stopped at Elwood‘s door on the way, but had

found all dark within. Entering his room, he placed the spiky thing on the table, and lay down

in complete mental and physical exhaustion without pausing to undress. From the closed loft

above the slanting ceiling he thought he heard a faint scratching and padding, but he was too

disorganised even to mind it. That cryptical pull from the north was getting very strong again,

though it seemed now to come from a lower place in the sky.

In the dazzling violet light of dream the old woman and the fanged, furry thing came again and

with a greater distinctness than on any former occasion. This time they actually reached him,

and he felt the crone‘s withered claws clutching at him. He was pulled out of bed and into

empty space, and for a moment he heard a rhythmic roaring and saw the twilight

amorphousness of the vague abysses seething around him. But that moment was very brief,

for presently he was in a crude, windowless little space with rough beams and planks rising to

a peak just above his head, and with a curious slanting floor underfoot. Propped level on that

floor were low cases full of books of every degree of antiquity and disintegration, and in the

centre were a table and bench, both apparently fastened in place. Small objects of unknown

shape and nature were ranged on the tops of the cases, and in the flaming violet light Gilman

thought he saw a counterpart of the spiky image which had puzzled him so horribly. On the

left the floor fell abruptly away, leaving a black triangular gulf out of which, after a second‘s dry

rattling, there presently climbed the hateful little furry thing with the yellow fangs and bearded

human face.

The evilly grinning beldame still clutched him, and beyond the table stood a figure he had

never seen before—a tall, lean man of dead black colouration but without the slightest sign of

negroid features; wholly devoid of either hair or beard, and wearing as his only garment a

shapeless robe of some heavy black fabric. His feet were indistinguishable because of the

table and bench, but he must have been shod, since there was a clicking whenever he

changed position. The man did not speak, and bore no trace of expression on his small,

regular features. He merely pointed to a book of prodigious size which lay open on the table,

while the beldame thrust a huge grey quill into Gilman‘s right hand. Over everything was a pall

of intensely maddening fear, and the climax was reached when the furry thing ran up the

dreamer‘s clothing to his shoulders and then down his left arm, finally biting him sharply in the

wrist just below his cuff. As the blood spurted from this wound Gilman lapsed into a faint.

He awaked on the morning of the 22nd with a pain in his left wrist, and saw that his cuff was

brown with dried blood. His recollections were very confused, but the scene with the black

man in the unknown space stood out vividly. The rats must have bitten him as he slept, giving

rise to the climax of that frightful dream. Opening the door, he saw that the flour on the

corridor floor was undisturbed except for the huge prints of the loutish fellow who roomed at

the other end of the garret. So he had not been sleep-walking this time. But something would

have to be done about those rats. He would speak to the landlord about them. Again he tried

to stop up the hole at the base of the slanting wall, wedging in a candlestick which seemed of

about the right size. His ears were ringing horribly, as if with the residual echoes of some

horrible noise heard in dreams.

As he bathed and changed clothes he tried to recall what he had dreamed after the scene in

the violet-litten space, but nothing definite would crystallise in his mind. That scene itself must

have corresponded to the sealed loft overhead, which had begun to attack his imagination so

violently, but later impressions were faint and hazy. There were suggestions of the vague,

twilight abysses, and of still vaster, blacker abysses beyond them—abysses in which all fixed

suggestions of form were absent. He had been taken there by the bubble-congeries and the

little polyhedron which always dogged him; but they, like himself, had changed to wisps of

milky, barely luminous mist in this farther void of ultimate blackness. Something else had

gone on ahead—a larger wisp which now and then condensed into nameless approximations

of form—and he thought that their progress had not been in a straight line, but rather along

the alien curves and spirals of some ethereal vortex which obeyed laws unknown to the

physics and mathematics of any conceivable cosmos. Eventually there had been a hint of

vast, leaping shadows, of a monstrous, half-acoustic pulsing, and of the thin, monotonous

piping of an unseen flute—but that was all. Gilman decided he had picked up that last

conception from what he had read in the Necronomicon about the mindless entity Azathoth,

which rules all time and space from a curiously environed black throne at the centre of Chaos.

When the blood was washed away the wrist wound proved very slight, and Gilman puzzled

over the location of the two tiny punctures. It occurred to him that there was no blood on the

bedspread where he had lain—which was very curious in view of the amount on his skin and

cuff. Had he been sleep-walking within his room, and had the rat bitten him as he sat in some

chair or paused in some less rational position? He looked in every corner for brownish drops

or stains, but did not find any. He had better, he thought, sprinkle flour within the room as well

as outside the door—though after all no further proof of his sleep-walking was needed. He

knew he did walk—and the thing to do now was to stop it. He must ask Frank Elwood for help.

This morning the strange pulls from space seemed lessened, though they were replaced by

another sensation even more inexplicable. It was a vague, insistent impulse to fly away from

his present situation, but held not a hint of the specific direction in which he wished to fly. As

he picked up the strange spiky image on the table he thought the older northward pull grew a

trifle stronger; but even so, it was wholly overruled by the newer and more bewildering urge.

He took the spiky image down to Elwood‘s room, steeling himself against the whines of the

loomfixer which welled up from the ground floor. Elwood was in, thank heaven, and appeared

to be stirring about. There was time for a little conversation before leaving for breakfast and

college, so Gilman hurriedly poured forth an account of his recent dreams and fears. His host

was very sympathetic, and agreed that something ought to be done. He was shocked by his

guest‘s drawn, haggard aspect, and noticed the queer, abnormal-looking sunburn which

others had remarked during the past week. There was not much, though, that he could say.

He had not seen Gilman on any sleep-walking expedition, and had no idea what the curious

image could be. He had, though, heard the French-Canadian who lodged just under Gilman

talking to Mazurewicz one evening. They were telling each other how badly they dreaded the

coming of Walpurgis-Night, now only a few days off; and were exchanging pitying comments

about the poor, doomed young gentleman. Desrochers, the fellow under Gilman‘s room, had

spoken of nocturnal footsteps both shod and unshod, and of the violet light he saw one night

when he had stolen fearfully up to peer through Gilman‘s keyhole. He had not dared to peer,

he told Mazurewicz, after he had glimpsed that light through the cracks around the door.

There had been soft talking, too—and as he began to describe it his voice had sunk to an

inaudible whisper.

Elwood could not imagine what had set these superstitious creatures gossiping, but supposed

their imaginations had been roused by Gilman‘s late hours and somnolent walking and talking

on the one hand, and by the nearness of traditionally feared May-Eve on the other hand. That

Gilman talked in his sleep was plain, and it was obviously from Desrochers‘ keyhole-listenings

that the delusive notion of the violet dream-light had got abroad. These simple people were

quick to imagine they had seen any odd thing they had heard about. As for a plan of action—

Gilman had better move down to Elwood‘s room and avoid sleeping alone. Elwood would, if

awake, rouse him whenever he began to talk or rise in his sleep. Very soon, too, he must see

the specialist. Meanwhile they would take the spiky image around to the various museums

and to certain professors; seeking identification and stating that it had been found in a public

rubbish-can. Also, Dombrowski must attend to the poisoning of those rats in the walls.

Braced up by Elwood‘s companionship, Gilman attended classes that day. Strange urges still

tugged at him, but he could sidetrack them with considerable success. During a free period he

shewed the queer image to several professors, all of whom were intensely interested, though

none of them could shed any light upon its nature or origin. That night he slept on a couch

which Elwood had had the landlord bring to the second-story room, and for the first time in

weeks was wholly free from disquieting dreams. But the feverishness still hung on, and the

whines of the loomfixer were an unnerving influence.

During the next few days Gilman enjoyed an almost perfect immunity from morbid

manifestations. He had, Elwood said, shewed no tendency to talk or rise in his sleep; and

meanwhile the landlord was putting rat-poison everywhere. The only disturbing element was

the talk among the superstitious foreigners, whose imaginations had become highly excited.

Mazurewicz was always trying to make him get a crucifix, and finally forced one upon him

which he said had been blessed by the good Father Iwanicki. Desrochers, too, had something

to say—in fact, he insisted that cautious steps had sounded in the now vacant room above

him on the first and second nights of Gilman‘s absence from it. Paul Choynski thought he

heard sounds in the halls and on the stairs at night, and claimed that his door had been softly

tried, while Mrs. Dombrowski vowed she had seen Brown Jenkin for the first time since All-

Hallows. But such naive reports could mean very little, and Gilman let the cheap metal crucifix

hang idly from a knob on his host‘s dresser.

For three days Gilman and Elwood canvassed the local museums in an effort to identify the

strange spiky image, but always without success. In every quarter, however, interest was

intense; for the utter alienage of the thing was a tremendous challenge to scientific curiosity.

One of the small radiating arms was broken off and subjected to chemical analysis, and the

result is still talked about in college circles. Professor Ellery found platinum, iron, and tellurium

in the strange alloy; but mixed with these were at least three other apparent elements of high

atomic weight which chemistry was absolutely powerless to classify. Not only did they fail to

correspond with any known element, but they did not even fit the vacant places reserved for

probable elements in the periodic system. The mystery remains unsolved to this day, though

the image is on exhibition at the museum of Miskatonic University.

On the morning of April 27 a fresh rat-hole appeared in the room where Gilman was a guest,

but Dombrowski tinned it up during the day. The poison was not having much effect, for

scratchings and scurryings in the walls were virtually undiminished. Elwood was out late that

night, and Gilman waited up for him. He did not wish to go to sleep in a room alone—

especially since he thought he had glimpsed in the evening twilight the repellent old woman

whose image had become so horribly transferred to his dreams. He wondered who she was,

and what had been near her rattling the tin can in a rubbish-heap at the mouth of a squalid

courtyard. The crone had seemed to notice him and leer evilly at him—though perhaps this

was merely his imagination.

The next day both youths felt very tired, and knew they would sleep like logs when night

came. In the evening they drowsily discussed the mathematical studies which had so

completely and perhaps harmfully engrossed Gilman, and speculated about the linkage with

ancient magic and folklore which seemed so darkly probable. They spoke of old Keziah

Mason, and Elwood agreed that Gilman had good scientific grounds for thinking she might

have stumbled on strange and significant information. The hidden cults to which these witches

belonged often guarded and handed down surprising secrets from elder, forgotten aeons; and

it was by no means impossible that Keziah had actually mastered the art of passing through

dimensional gates. Tradition emphasises the uselessness of material barriers in halting a

witch‘s motions; and who can say what underlies the old tales of broomstick rides through the

night?

Whether a modern student could ever gain similar powers from mathematical research alone,

was still to be seen. Success, Gilman added, might lead to dangerous and unthinkable

situations; for who could foretell the conditions pervading an adjacent but normally

inaccessible dimension? On the other hand, the picturesque possibilities were enormous.

Time could not exist in certain belts of space, and by entering and remaining in such a belt

one might preserve one‘s life and age indefinitely; never suffering organic metabolism or

deterioration except for slight amounts incurred during visits to one‘s own or similar planes.

One might, for example, pass into a timeless dimension and emerge at some remote period

of the earth‘s history as young as before.

Whether anybody had ever managed to do this, one could hardly conjecture with any degree

of authority. Old legends are hazy and ambiguous, and in historic times all attempts at

crossing forbidden gaps seem complicated by strange and terrible alliances with beings and

messengers from outside. There was the immemorial figure of the deputy or messenger of

hidden and terrible powers—the ―Black Man‖ of the witch-cult, and the ―Nyarlathotep‖ of the

Necronomicon. There was, too, the baffling problem of the lesser messengers or

intermediaries—the quasi-animals and queer hybrids which legend depicts as witches‘

familiars. As Gilman and Elwood retired, too sleepy to argue further, they heard Joe

Mazurewicz reel into the house half-drunk, and shuddered at the desperate wildness of his

whining prayers.

That night Gilman saw the violet light again. In his dream he had heard a scratching and

gnawing in the partitions, and thought that someone fumbled clumsily at the latch. Then he

saw the old woman and the small furry thing advancing toward him over the carpeted floor.

The beldame‘s face was alight with inhuman exultation, and the little yellow-toothed morbidity

tittered mockingly as it pointed at the heavily sleeping form of Elwood on the other couch

across the room. A paralysis of fear stifled all attempts to cry out. As once before, the hideous

crone seized Gilman by the shoulders, yanking him out of bed and into empty space. Again

the infinitude of the shrieking twilight abysses flashed past him, but in another second he

thought he was in a dark, muddy, unknown alley of foetid odours, with the rotting walls of

ancient houses towering up on every hand.

Ahead was the robed black man he had seen in the peaked space in the other dream, while

from a lesser distance the old woman was beckoning and grimacing imperiously. Brown

Jenkin was rubbing itself with a kind of affectionate playfulness around the ankles of the black

man, which the deep mud largely concealed. There was a dark open doorway on the right, to

which the black man silently pointed. Into this the grimacing crone started, dragging Gilman

after her by his pajama sleeve. There were evil-smelling staircases which creaked ominously,

and on which the old woman seemed to radiate a faint violet light; and finally a door leading

off a landing. The crone fumbled with the latch and pushed the door open, motioning to

Gilman to wait and disappearing inside the black aperture.

The youth‘s oversensitive ears caught a hideous strangled cry, and presently the beldame

came out of the room bearing a small, senseless form which she thrust at the dreamer as if

ordering him to carry it. The sight of this form, and the expression on its face, broke the spell.

Still too dazed to cry out, he plunged recklessly down the noisome staircase and into the mud

outside; halting only when seized and choked by the waiting black man. As consciousness

departed he heard the faint, shrill tittering of the fanged, rat-like abnormality.

On the morning of the 29th Gilman awaked into a maelstrom of horror. The instant he opened

his eyes he knew something was terribly wrong, for he was back in his old garret room with

the slanting wall and ceiling, sprawled on the now unmade bed. His throat was aching

inexplicably, and as he struggled to a sitting posture he saw with growing fright that his feet

and pajama-bottoms were brown with caked mud. For the moment his recollections were

hopelessly hazy, but he knew at least that he must have been sleep-walking. Elwood had

been lost too deeply in slumber to hear and stop him. On the floor were confused muddy

prints, but oddly enough they did not extend all the way to the door. The more Gilman looked

at them, the more peculiar they seemed; for in addition to those he could recognise as his

there were some smaller, almost round markings—such as the legs of a large chair or table

might make, except that most of them tended to be divided into halves. There were also some

curious muddy rat-tracks leading out of a fresh hole and back into it again. Utter bewilderment

and the fear of madness racked Gilman as he staggered to the door and saw that there were

no muddy prints outside. The more he remembered of his hideous dream the more terrified he

felt, and it added to his desperation to hear Joe Mazurewicz chanting mournfully two floors

below.

Descending to Elwood‘s room he roused his still-sleeping host and began telling of how he

had found himself, but Elwood could form no idea of what might really have happened. Where

Gilman could have been, how he got back to his room without making tracks in the hall, and

how the muddy, furniture-like prints came to be mixed with his in the garret chamber, were

wholly beyond conjecture. Then there were those dark, livid marks on his throat, as if he had

tried to strangle himself. He put his hands up to them, but found that they did not even

approximately fit. While they were talking Desrochers dropped in to say that he had heard a

terrific clattering overhead in the dark small hours. No, there had been no one on the stairs

after midnight—though just before midnight he had heard faint footfalls in the garret, and

cautiously descending steps he did not like. It was, he added, a very bad time of year for

Arkham. The young gentleman had better be sure to wear the crucifix Joe Mazurewicz had

given him. Even the daytime was not safe, for after dawn there had been strange sounds in

the house—especially a thin, childish wail hastily choked off.

Gilman mechanically attended classes that morning, but was wholly unable to fix his mind on

his studies. A mood of hideous apprehension and expectancy had seized him, and he

seemed to be awaiting the fall of some annihilating blow. At noon he lunched at the University

Spa, picking up a paper from the next seat as he waited for dessert. But he never ate that

dessert; for an item on the paper‘s first page left him limp, wild-eyed, and able only to pay his

check and stagger back to Elwood‘s room.

There had been a strange kidnapping the night before in Orne‘s Gangway, and the two-year-

old child of a clod-like laundry worker named Anastasia Wolejko had completely vanished

from sight. The mother, it appeared, had feared the event for some time; but the reasons she

assigned for her fear were so grotesque that no one took them seriously. She had, she said,

seen Brown Jenkin about the place now and then ever since early in March, and knew from

its grimaces and titterings that little Ladislas must be marked for sacrifice at the awful Sabbat

on Walpurgis-Night. She had asked her neighbour Mary Czanek to sleep in the room and try

to protect the child, but Mary had not dared. She could not tell the police, for they never

believed such things. Children had been taken that way every year ever since she could

remember. And her friend Pete Stowacki would not help because he wanted the child out of

the way anyhow.

But what threw Gilman into a cold perspiration was the report of a pair of revellers who had

been walking past the mouth of the gangway just after midnight. They admitted they had been

drunk, but both vowed they had seen a crazily dressed trio furtively entering the dark

passageway. There had, they said, been a huge robed negro, a little old woman in rags, and a

young white man in his night-clothes. The old woman had been dragging the youth, while

around the feet of the negro a tame rat was rubbing and weaving in the brown mud.

Gilman sat in a daze all the afternoon, and Elwood—who had meanwhile seen the papers

and formed terrible conjectures from them—found him thus when he came home. This time

neither could doubt but that something hideously serious was closing in around them.

Between the phantasms of nightmare and the realities of the objective world a monstrous and

unthinkable relationship was crystallising, and only stupendous vigilance could avert still more

direful developments. Gilman must see a specialist sooner or later, but not just now, when all

the papers were full of this kidnapping business.

Just what had really happened was maddeningly obscure, and for a moment both Gilman and

Elwood exchanged whispered theories of the wildest kind. Had Gilman unconsciously

succeeded better than he knew in his studies of space and its dimensions? Had he actually

slipped outside our sphere to points unguessed and unimaginable? Where—if anywhere—

had he been on those nights of daemoniac alienage? The roaring twilight abysses—the green

hillside—the blistering terrace—the pulls from the stars—the ultimate black vortex—the black

man—the muddy alley and the stairs—the old witch and the fanged, furry horror—the bubble-

congeries and the little polyhedron—the strange sunburn—the wrist wound—the unexplained

image—the muddy feet—the throat-marks—the tales and fears of the superstitious

foreigners—what did all this mean? To what extent could the laws of sanity apply to such a

case?

There was no sleep for either of them that night, but next day they both cut classes and

drowsed. This was April 30th, and with the dusk would come the hellish Sabbat-time which all

the foreigners and the superstitious old folk feared. Mazurewicz came home at six o‘clock and

said people at the mill were whispering that the Walpurgis-revels would be held in the dark

ravine beyond Meadow Hill where the old white stone stands in a place queerly void of all

plant-life. Some of them had even told the police and advised them to look there for the

missing Wolejko child, but they did not believe anything would be done. Joe insisted that the

poor young gentleman wear his nickel-chained crucifix, and Gilman put it on and dropped it

inside his shirt to humour the fellow.

Late at night the two youths sat drowsing in their chairs, lulled by the rhythmical praying of the

loomfixer on the floor below. Gilman listened as he nodded, his preternaturally sharpened

hearing seeming to strain for some subtle, dreaded murmur beyond the noises in the ancient

house. Unwholesome recollections of things in the Necronomicon and the Black Book welled

up, and he found himself swaying to infandous rhythms said to pertain to the blackest

ceremonies of the Sabbat and to have an origin outside the time and space we comprehend.

Presently he realised what he was listening for—the hellish chant of the celebrants in the

distant black valley. How did he know so much about what they expected? How did he know

the time when Nahab and her acolyte were due to bear the brimming bowl which would follow

the black cock and the black goat? He saw that Elwood had dropped asleep, and tried to call

out and waken him. Something, however, closed his throat. He was not his own master. Had

he signed the black man‘s book after all?

Then his fevered, abnormal hearing caught the distant, windborne notes. Over miles of hill

and field and alley they came, but he recognised them none the less. The fires must be lit,

and the dancers must be starting in. How could he keep himself from going? What was it that

had enmeshed him? Mathematics—folklore—the house—old Keziah—Brown Jenkin . . . and

now he saw that there was a fresh rat-hole in the wall near his couch. Above the distant

chanting and the nearer praying of Joe Mazurewicz came another sound—a stealthy,

determined scratching in the partitions. He hoped the electric lights would not go out. Then he

saw the fanged, bearded little face in the rat-hole—the accursed little face which he at last

realised bore such a shocking, mocking resemblance to old Keziah‘s—and heard the faint

fumbling at the door.

The screaming twilight abysses flashed before him, and he felt himself helpless in the

formless grasp of the iridescent bubble-congeries. Ahead raced the small, kaleidoscopic

polyhedron, and all through the churning void there was a heightening and acceleration of the

vague tonal pattern which seemed to foreshadow some unutterable and unendurable climax.

He seemed to know what was coming—the monstrous burst of Walpurgis-rhythm in whose

cosmic timbre would be concentrated all the primal, ultimate space-time seethings which lie

behind the massed spheres of matter and sometimes break forth in measured reverberations

that penetrate faintly to every layer of entity and give hideous significance throughout the

worlds to certain dreaded periods.

But all this vanished in a second. He was again in the cramped, violet-litten peaked space

with the slanting floor, the low cases of ancient books, the bench and table, the queer objects,

and the triangular gulf at one side. On the table lay a small white figure—an infant boy,

unclothed and unconscious—while on the other side stood the monstrous, leering old woman

with a gleaming, grotesque-hafted knife in her right hand, and a queerly proportioned pale

metal bowl covered with curiously chased designs and having delicate lateral handles in her

left. She was intoning some croaking ritual in a language which Gilman could not understand,

but which seemed like something guardedly quoted in the Necronomicon.

As the scene grew clear he saw the ancient crone bend forward and extend the empty bowl

across the table—and unable to control his own motions, he reached far forward and took it in

both hands, noticing as he did so its comparative lightness. At the same moment the

disgusting form of Brown Jenkin scrambled up over the brink of the triangular black gulf on his

left. The crone now motioned him to hold the bowl in a certain position while she raised the

huge, grotesque knife above the small white victim as high as her right hand could reach. The

fanged, furry thing began tittering a continuation of the unknown ritual, while the witch

croaked loathsome responses. Gilman felt a gnawing, poignant abhorrence shoot through his

mental and emotional paralysis, and the light metal bowl shook in his grasp. A second later

the downward motion of the knife broke the spell completely, and he dropped the bowl with a

resounding bell-like clangour while his hands darted out frantically to stop the monstrous

deed.

In an instant he had edged up the slanting floor around the end of the table and wrenched the

knife from the old woman‘s claws; sending it clattering over the brink of the narrow triangular

gulf. In another instant, however, matters were reversed; for those murderous claws had

locked themselves tightly around his own throat, while the wrinkled face was twisted with

insane fury. He felt the chain of the cheap crucifix grinding into his neck, and in his peril

wondered how the sight of the object itself would affect the evil creature. Her strength was

altogether superhuman, but as she continued her choking he reached feebly in his shirt and

drew out the metal symbol, snapping the chain and pulling it free.

At sight of the device the witch seemed struck with panic, and her grip relaxed long enough to

give Gilman a chance to break it entirely. He pulled the steel-like claws from his neck, and

would have dragged the beldame over the edge of the gulf had not the claws received a fresh

access of strength and closed in again. This time he resolved to reply in kind, and his own

hands reached out for the creature‘s throat. Before she saw what he was doing he had the

chain of the crucifix twisted about her neck, and a moment later he had tightened it enough to

cut off her breath. During her last struggle he felt something bite at his ankle, and saw that

Brown Jenkin had come to her aid. With one savage kick he sent the morbidity over the edge

of the gulf and heard it whimper on some level far below.

Whether he had killed the ancient crone he did not know, but he let her rest on the floor where

she had fallen. Then, as he turned away, he saw on the table a sight which nearly snapped

the last thread of his reason. Brown Jenkin, tough of sinew and with four tiny hands of

daemoniac dexterity, had been busy while the witch was throttling him, and his efforts had

been in vain. What he had prevented the knife from doing to the victim‘s chest, the yellow

fangs of the furry blasphemy had done to a wrist—and the bowl so lately on the floor stood full

beside the small lifeless body.

In his dream-delirium Gilman heard the hellish, alien-rhythmed chant of the Sabbat coming

from an infinite distance, and knew the black man must be there. Confused memories mixed

themselves with his mathematics, and he believed his subconscious mind held the angles

which he needed to guide him back to the normal world—alone and unaided for the first time.

He felt sure he was in the immemorially sealed loft above his own room, but whether he could

ever escape through the slanting floor or the long-stopped egress he doubted greatly.

Besides, would not an escape from a dream-loft bring him merely into a dream-house—an

abnormal projection of the actual place he sought? He was wholly bewildered as to the

relation betwixt dream and reality in all his experiences.

The passage through the vague abysses would be frightful, for the Walpurgis-rhythm would

be vibrating, and at last he would have to hear that hitherto veiled cosmic pulsing which he so

mortally dreaded. Even now he could detect a low, monstrous shaking whose tempo he

suspected all too well. At Sabbat-time it always mounted and reached through to the worlds to

summon the initiate to nameless rites. Half the chants of the Sabbat were patterned on this

faintly overheard pulsing which no earthly ear could endure in its unveiled spatial fulness.

Gilman wondered, too, whether he could trust his instinct to take him back to the right part of

space. How could he be sure he would not land on that green-litten hillside of a far planet, on

the tessellated terrace above the city of tentacled monsters somewhere beyond the galaxy, or

in the spiral black vortices of that ultimate void of Chaos wherein reigns the mindless

daemon-sultan Azathoth?

Just before he made the plunge the violet light went out and left him in utter blackness. The

witch—old Keziah—Nahab—that must have meant her death. And mixed with the distant

chant of the Sabbat and the whimpers of Brown Jenkin in the gulf below he thought he heard

another and wilder whine from unknown depths. Joe Mazurewicz—the prayers against the

Crawling Chaos now turning to an inexplicably triumphant shriek—worlds of sardonic actuality

impinging on vortices of febrile dream—Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Goat with a Thousand

Young. . . .

They found Gilman on the floor of his queerly angled old garret room long before dawn, for

the terrible cry had brought Desrochers and Choynski and Dombrowski and Mazurewicz at

once, and had even wakened the soundly sleeping Elwood in his chair. He was alive, and with

open, staring eyes, but seemed largely unconscious. On his throat were the marks of

murderous hands, and on his left ankle was a distressing rat-bite. His clothing was badly

rumpled, and Joe‘s crucifix was missing. Elwood trembled, afraid even to speculate on what

new form his friend‘s sleep-walking had taken. Mazurewicz seemed half-dazed because of a

―sign‖ he said he had had in response to his prayers, and he crossed himself frantically when

the squealing and whimpering of a rat sounded from beyond the slanting partition.

When the dreamer was settled on his couch in Elwood‘s room they sent for Dr. Malkowski—a

local practitioner who would repeat no tales where they might prove embarrassing—and he

gave Gilman two hypodermic injections which caused him to relax in something like natural

drowsiness. During the day the patient regained consciousness at times and whispered his

newest dream disjointedly to Elwood. It was a painful process, and at its very start brought out

a fresh and disconcerting fact.

Gilman—whose ears had so lately possessed an abnormal sensitiveness—was now stone

deaf. Dr. Malkowski, summoned again in haste, told Elwood that both ear-drums were

ruptured, as if by the impact of some stupendous sound intense beyond all human conception

or endurance. How such a sound could have been heard in the last few hours without

arousing all the Miskatonic Valley was more than the honest physician could say.

Elwood wrote his part of the colloquy on paper, so that a fairly easy communication was

maintained. Neither knew what to make of the whole chaotic business, and decided it would

be better if they thought as little as possible about it. Both, though, agreed that they must

leave this ancient and accursed house as soon as it could be arranged. Evening papers

spoke of a police raid on some curious revellers in a ravine beyond Meadow Hill just before

dawn, and mentioned that the white stone there was an object of age-long superstitious

regard. Nobody had been caught, but among the scattering fugitives had been glimpsed a

huge negro. In another column it was stated that no trace of the missing child Ladislas

Wolejko had been found.

The crowning horror came that very night. Elwood will never forget it, and was forced to stay

out of college the rest of the term because of the resulting nervous breakdown. He had

thought he heard rats in the partitions all the evening, but paid little attention to them. Then,

long after both he and Gilman had retired, the atrocious shrieking began. Elwood jumped up,

turned on the lights, and rushed over to his guest‘s couch. The occupant was emitting sounds

of veritably inhuman nature, as if racked by some torment beyond description. He was

writhing under the bedclothes, and a great red stain was beginning to appear on the blankets.

Elwood scarcely dared to touch him, but gradually the screaming and writhing subsided. By

this time Dombrowski, Choynski, Desrochers, Mazurewicz, and the top-floor lodger were all

crowding into the doorway, and the landlord had sent his wife back to telephone for Dr.

Malkowski. Everybody shrieked when a large rat-like form suddenly jumped out from beneath

the ensanguined bedclothes and scuttled across the floor to a fresh, open hole close by.

When the doctor arrived and began to pull down those frightful covers Walter Gilman was

dead.

It would be barbarous to do more than suggest what had killed Gilman. There had been

virtually a tunnel through his body—something had eaten his heart out. Dombrowski, frantic at

the failure of his constant rat-poisoning efforts, cast aside all thought of his lease and within a

week had moved with all his older lodgers to a dingy but less ancient house in Walnut Street.

The worst thing for a while was keeping Joe Mazurewicz quiet; for the brooding loomfixer

would never stay sober, and was constantly whining and muttering about spectral and terrible

things.

It seems that on that last hideous night Joe had stooped to look at the crimson rat-tracks

which led from Gilman‘s couch to the nearby hole. On the carpet they were very indistinct, but

a piece of open flooring intervened between the carpet‘s edge and the base-board. There

Mazurewicz had found something monstrous—or thought he had, for no one else could quite

agree with him despite the undeniable queerness of the prints. The tracks on the flooring were

certainly vastly unlike the average prints of a rat, but even Choynski and Desrochers would

not admit that they were like the prints of four tiny human hands.

The house was never rented again. As soon as Dombrowski left it the pall of its final

desolation began to descend, for people shunned it both on account of its old reputation and

because of the new foetid odour. Perhaps the ex-landlord‘s rat-poison had worked after all, for

not long after his departure the place became a neighbourhood nuisance. Health officials

traced the smell to the closed spaces above and beside the eastern garret room, and agreed

that the number of dead rats must be enormous. They decided, however, that it was not worth

their while to hew open and disinfect the long-sealed spaces; for the foetor would soon be

over, and the locality was not one which encouraged fastidious standards. Indeed, there were

always vague local tales of unexplained stenches upstairs in the Witch House just after May-

Eve and Hallowmass. The neighbours grumblingly acquiesced in the inertia—but the foetor

none the less formed an additional count against the place. Toward the last the house was

condemned as an habitation by the building inspector.

Gilman‘s dreams and their attendant circumstances have never been explained. Elwood,

whose thoughts on the entire episode are sometimes almost maddening, came back to

college the next autumn and graduated in the following June. He found the spectral gossip of

the town much diminished, and it is indeed a fact that—notwithstanding certain reports of a

ghostly tittering in the deserted house which lasted almost as long as that edifice itself—no

fresh appearances either of old Keziah or of Brown Jenkin have been muttered of since

Gilman‘s death. It is rather fortunate that Elwood was not in Arkham in that later year when

certain events abruptly renewed the local whispers about elder horrors. Of course he heard

about the matter afterward and suffered untold torments of black and bewildered speculation;

but even that was not as bad as actual nearness and several possible sights would have

been.

In March, 1931, a gale wrecked the roof and great chimney of the vacant Witch House, so

that a chaos of crumbling bricks, blackened, moss-grown shingles, and rotting planks and

timbers crashed down into the loft and broke through the floor beneath. The whole attic story

was choked with debris from above, but no one took the trouble to touch the mess before the

inevitable razing of the decrepit structure. That ultimate step came in the following December,

and it was when Gilman‘s old room was cleared out by reluctant, apprehensive workmen that

the gossip began.

Among the rubbish which had crashed through the ancient slanting ceiling were several

things which made the workmen pause and call in the police. Later the police in turn called in

the coroner and several professors from the university. There were bones—badly crushed

and splintered, but clearly recognisable as human—whose manifestly modern date conflicted

puzzlingly with the remote period at which their only possible lurking-place, the low, slant-

floored loft overhead, had supposedly been sealed from all human access. The coroner‘s

physician decided that some belonged to a small child, while certain others—found mixed

with shreds of rotten brownish cloth—belonged to a rather undersized, bent female of

advanced years. Careful sifting of debris also disclosed many tiny bones of rats caught in the

collapse, as well as older rat-bones gnawed by small fangs in a fashion now and then highly

productive of controversy and reflection.

Other objects found included the mingled fragments of many books and papers, together with

a yellowish dust left from the total disintegration of still older books and papers. All, without

exception, appeared to deal with black magic in its most advanced and horrible forms; and

the evidently recent date of certain items is still a mystery as unsolved as that of the modern

human bones. An even greater mystery is the absolute homogeneity of the crabbed, archaic

writing found on a wide range of papers whose conditions and watermarks suggest age

differences of at least 150 to 200 years. To some, though, the greatest mystery of all is the

variety of utterly inexplicable objects—objects whose shapes, materials, types of

workmanship, and purposes baffle all conjecture—found scattered amidst the wreckage in

evidently diverse states of injury. One of these things—which excited several Miskatonic

professors profoundly—is a badly damaged monstrosity plainly resembling the strange image

which Gilman gave to the college museum, save that it is larger, wrought of some peculiar

bluish stone instead of metal, and possessed of a singularly angled pedestal with

undecipherable hieroglyphics.

Archaeologists and anthropologists are still trying to explain the bizarre designs chased on a

crushed bowl of light metal whose inner side bore ominous brownish stains when found.

Foreigners and credulous grandmothers are equally garrulous about the modern nickel

crucifix with broken chain mixed in the rubbish and shiveringly identified by Joe Mazurewicz

as that which he had given poor Gilman many years before. Some believe this crucifix was

dragged up to the sealed loft by rats, while others think it must have been on the floor in some

corner of Gilman‘s old room all the time. Still others, including Joe himself, have theories too

wild and fantastic for sober credence.

When the slanting wall of Gilman‘s room was torn out, the once sealed triangular space

between that partition and the house‘s north wall was found to contain much less structural

debris, even in proportion to its size, than the room itself; though it had a ghastly layer of older

materials which paralysed the wreckers with horror. In brief, the floor was a veritable ossuary

of the bones of small children—some fairly modern, but others extending back in infinite

gradations to a period so remote that crumbling was almost complete. On this deep bony

layer rested a knife of great size, obvious antiquity, and grotesque, ornate, and exotic

design—above which the debris was piled.

In the midst of this debris, wedged between a fallen plank and a cluster of cemented bricks

from the ruined chimney, was an object destined to cause more bafflement, veiled fright, and

openly superstitious talk in Arkham than anything else discovered in the haunted and

accursed building. This object was the partly crushed skeleton of a huge, diseased rat, whose

abnormalities of form are still a topic of debate and source of singular reticence among the

members of Miskatonic‘s department of comparative anatomy. Very little concerning this

skeleton has leaked out, but the workmen who found it whisper in shocked tones about the

long, brownish hairs with which it was associated.

The bones of the tiny paws, it is rumoured, imply prehensile characteristics more typical of a

diminutive monkey than of a rat; while the small skull with its savage yellow fangs is of the

utmost anomalousness, appearing from certain angles like a miniature, monstrously degraded

parody of a human skull. The workmen crossed themselves in fright when they came upon

this blasphemy, but later burned candles of gratitude in St. Stanislaus‘ Church because of the

shrill, ghostly tittering they felt they would never hear again.

Return to Table of Contents

The Thing on the Doorstep

(1933)

It is true that I have sent six bullets through the head of my best friend, and yet I hope to shew

by this statement that I am not his murderer. At first I shall be called a madman—madder than

the man I shot in his cell at the Arkham Sanitarium. Later some of my readers will weigh each

statement, correlate it with the known facts, and ask themselves how I could have believed

otherwise than as I did after facing the evidence of that horror—that thing on the doorstep.

Until then I also saw nothing but madness in the wild tales I have acted on. Even now I ask

myself whether I was misled—or whether I am not mad after all. I do not know—but others

have strange things to tell of Edward and Asenath Derby, and even the stolid police are at

their wits‘ ends to account for that last terrible visit. They have tried weakly to concoct a theory

of a ghastly jest or warning by discharged servants, yet they know in their hearts that the truth

is something infinitely more terrible and incredible.

So I say that I have not murdered Edward Derby. Rather have I avenged him, and in so doing

purged the earth of a horror whose survival might have loosed untold terrors on all mankind.

There are black zones of shadow close to our daily paths, and now and then some evil soul

breaks a passage through. When that happens, the man who knows must strike before

reckoning the consequences.

I have known Edward Pickman Derby all his life. Eight years my junior, he was so precocious

that we had much in common from the time he was eight and I sixteen. He was the most

phenomenal child scholar I have ever known, and at seven was writing verse of a sombre,

fantastic, almost morbid cast which astonished the tutors surrounding him. Perhaps his

private education and coddled seclusion had something to do with his premature flowering.

An only child, he had organic weaknesses which startled his doting parents and caused them

to keep him closely chained to their side. He was never allowed out without his nurse, and

seldom had a chance to play unconstrainedly with other children. All this doubtless fostered a

strange, secretive inner life in the boy, with imagination as his one avenue of freedom.

At any rate, his juvenile learning was prodigious and bizarre; and his facile writings such as to

captivate me despite my greater age. About that time I had leanings toward art of a somewhat

grotesque cast, and I found in this younger child a rare kindred spirit. What lay behind our

joint love of shadows and marvels was, no doubt, the ancient, mouldering, and subtly

fearsome town in which we lived—witch-cursed, legend-haunted Arkham, whose huddled,

sagging gambrel roofs and crumbling Georgian balustrades brood out the centuries beside

the darkly muttering Miskatonic.

As time went by I turned to architecture and gave up my design of illustrating a book of

Edward‘s daemoniac poems, yet our comradeship suffered no lessening. Young Derby‘s odd

genius developed remarkably, and in his eighteenth year his collected nightmare-lyrics made

a real sensation when issued under the title Azathoth and Other Horrors. He was a close

correspondent of the notorious Baudelairean poet Justin Geoffrey, who wrote The People of

the Monolith and died screaming in a madhouse in 1926 after a visit to a sinister, ill-regarded

village in Hungary.

In self-reliance and practical affairs, however, Derby was greatly retarded because of his

coddled existence. His health had improved, but his habits of childish dependence were

fostered by overcareful parents; so that he never travelled alone, made independent

decisions, or assumed responsibilities. It was early seen that he would not be equal to a

struggle in the business or professional arena, but the family fortune was so ample that this

formed no tragedy. As he grew to years of manhood he retained a deceptive aspect of

boyishness. Blond and blue-eyed, he had the fresh complexion of a child; and his attempts to

raise a moustache were discernible only with difficulty. His voice was soft and light, and his

pampered, unexercised life gave him a juvenile chubbiness rather than the paunchiness of

premature middle age. He was of good height, and his handsome face would have made him

a notable gallant had not his shyness held him to seclusion and bookishness.

Derby‘s parents took him abroad every summer, and he was quick to seize on the surface

aspects of European thought and expression. His Poe-like talents turned more and more

toward the decadent, and other artistic sensitivenesses and yearnings were half-aroused in

him. We had great discussions in those days. I had been through Harvard, had studied in a

Boston architect‘s office, had married, and had finally returned to Arkham to practice my

profession—settling in the family homestead in Saltonstall St. since my father had moved to

Florida for his health. Edward used to call almost every evening, till I came to regard him as

one of the household. He had a characteristic way of ringing the doorbell or sounding the

knocker that grew to be a veritable code signal, so that after dinner I always listened for the

familiar three brisk strokes followed by two more after a pause. Less frequently I would visit at

his house and note with envy the obscure volumes in his constantly growing library.

Derby went through Miskatonic University in Arkham, since his parents would not let him

board away from them. He entered at sixteen and completed his course in three years,

majoring in English and French literature and receiving high marks in everything but

mathematics and the sciences. He mingled very little with the other students, though looking

enviously at the ―daring‖ or ―Bohemian‖ set—whose superficially ―smart‖ language and

meaninglessly ironic pose he aped, and whose dubious conduct he wished he dared adopt.

What he did do was to become an almost fanatical devotee of subterranean magical lore, for

which Miskatonic‘s library was and is famous. Always a dweller on the surface of phantasy

and strangeness, he now delved deep into the actual runes and riddles left by a fabulous past

for the guidance or puzzlement of posterity. He read things like the frightful Book of Eibon, the

Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, and the forbidden Necronomicon of the mad Arab

Abdul Alhazred, though he did not tell his parents he had seen them. Edward was twenty

when my son and only child was born, and seemed pleased when I named the newcomer

Edward Derby Upton, after him.

By the time he was twenty-five Edward Derby was a prodigiously learned man and a fairly

well-known poet and fantaisiste, though his lack of contacts and responsibilities had slowed

down his literary growth by making his products derivative and overbookish. I was perhaps his

closest friend—finding him an inexhaustible mine of vital theoretical topics, while he relied on

me for advice in whatever matters he did not wish to refer to his parents. He remained

single—more through shyness, inertia, and parental protectiveness than through inclination—

and moved in society only to the slightest and most perfunctory extent. When the war came

both health and ingrained timidity kept him at home. I went to Plattsburg for a commission, but

never got overseas.

So the years wore on. Edward‘s mother died when he was thirty-four, and for months he was

incapacitated by some odd psychological malady. His father took him to Europe, however,

and he managed to pull out of his trouble without visible effects. Afterward he seemed to feel

a sort of grotesque exhilaration, as if of partial escape from some unseen bondage. He began

to mingle in the more ―advanced‖ college set despite his middle age, and was present at

some extremely wild doings—on one occasion paying heavy blackmail (which he borrowed of

me) to keep his presence at a certain affair from his father‘s notice. Some of the whispered

rumours about the wild Miskatonic set were extremely singular. There was even talk of black

magic and of happenings utterly beyond credibility.

II.

Edward was thirty-eight when he met Asenath Waite. She was, I judge, about twenty-three at

the time; and was taking a special course in mediaeval metaphysics at Miskatonic. The

daughter of a friend of mine had met her before—in the Hall School at Kingsport—and had

been inclined to shun her because of her odd reputation. She was dark, smallish, and very

good-looking except for overprotuberant eyes; but something in her expression alienated

extremely sensitive people. It was, however, largely her origin and conversation which caused

average folk to avoid her. She was one of the Innsmouth Waites, and dark legends have

clustered for generations about crumbling, half-deserted Innsmouth and its people. There are

tales of horrible bargains about the year 1850, and of a strange element ―not quite human‖ in

the ancient families of the run-down fishing port—tales such as only old-time Yankees can

devise and repeat with proper awesomeness.

Asenath‘s case was aggravated by the fact that she was Ephraim Waite‘s daughter—the child

of his old age by an unknown wife who always went veiled. Ephraim lived in a half-decayed

mansion in Washington Street, Innsmouth, and those who had seen the place (Arkham folk

avoid going to Innsmouth whenever they can) declared that the attic windows were always

boarded, and that strange sounds sometimes floated from within as evening drew on. The old

man was known to have been a prodigious magical student in his day, and legend averred

that he could raise or quell storms at sea according to his whim. I had seen him once or twice

in my youth as he came to Arkham to consult forbidden tomes at the college library, and had

hated his wolfish, saturnine face with its tangle of iron-grey beard. He had died insane—under

rather queer circumstances—just before his daughter (by his will made a nominal ward of the

principal) entered the Hall School, but she had been his morbidly avid pupil and looked

fiendishly like him at times.

The friend whose daughter had gone to school with Asenath Waite repeated many curious

things when the news of Edward‘s acquaintance with her began to spread about. Asenath, it

seemed, had posed as a kind of magician at school; and had really seemed able to

accomplish some highly baffling marvels. She professed to be able to raise thunderstorms,

though her seeming success was generally laid to some uncanny knack at prediction. All

animals markedly disliked her, and she could make any dog howl by certain motions of her

right hand. There were times when she displayed snatches of knowledge and language very

singular—and very shocking—for a young girl; when she would frighten her schoolmates with

leers and winks of an inexplicable kind, and would seem to extract an obscene and zestful

irony from her present situation.

Most unusual, though, were the well-attested cases of her influence over other persons. She

was, beyond question, a genuine hypnotist. By gazing peculiarly at a fellow-student she would

often give the latter a distinct feeling of exchanged personality—as if the subject were placed

momentarily in the magician‘s body and able to stare half across the room at her real body,

whose eyes blazed and protruded with an alien expression. Asenath often made wild claims

about the nature of consciousness and about its independence of the physical frame—or at

least from the life-processes of the physical frame. Her crowning rage, however, was that she

was not a man; since she believed a male brain had certain unique and far-reaching cosmic

powers. Given a man‘s brain, she declared, she could not only equal but surpass her father in

mastery of unknown forces.

Edward met Asenath at a gathering of ―intelligentsia‖ held in one of the students‘ rooms, and

could talk of nothing else when he came to see me the next day. He had found her full of the

interests and erudition which engrossed him most, and was in addition wildly taken with her

appearance. I had never seen the young woman, and recalled casual references only faintly,

but I knew who she was. It seemed rather regrettable that Derby should become so upheaved

about her; but I said nothing to discourage him, since infatuation thrives on opposition. He

was not, he said, mentioning her to his father.

In the next few weeks I heard of very little but Asenath from young Derby. Others now

remarked Edward‘s autumnal gallantry, though they agreed that he did not look even nearly

his actual age, or seem at all inappropriate as an escort for his bizarre divinity. He was only a

trifle paunchy despite his indolence and self-indulgence, and his face was absolutely without

lines. Asenath, on the other hand, had the premature crow‘s feet which come from the

exercise of an intense will.

About this time Edward brought the girl to call on me, and I at once saw that his interest was

by no means one-sided. She eyed him continually with an almost predatory air, and I

perceived that their intimacy was beyond untangling. Soon afterward I had a visit from old Mr.

Derby, whom I had always admired and respected. He had heard the tales of his son‘s new

friendship, and had wormed the whole truth out of ―the boy‖. Edward meant to marry Asenath,

and had even been looking at houses in the suburbs. Knowing my usually great influence with

his son, the father wondered if I could help to break the ill-advised affair off; but I regretfully

expressed my doubts. This time it was not a question of Edward‘s weak will but of the

woman‘s strong will. The perennial child had transferred his dependence from the parental

image to a new and stronger image, and nothing could be done about it.

The wedding was performed a month later—by a justice of the peace, according to the bride‘s

request. Mr. Derby, at my advice, offered no opposition; and he, my wife, my son, and I

attended the brief ceremony—the other guests being wild young people from the college.

Asenath had bought the old Crowninshield place in the country at the end of High Street, and

they proposed to settle there after a short trip to Innsmouth, whence three servants and some

books and household goods were to be brought. It was probably not so much consideration

for Edward and his father as a personal wish to be near the college, its library, and its crowd

of ―sophisticates‖, that made Asenath settle in Arkham instead of returning permanently home.

When Edward called on me after the honeymoon I thought he looked slightly changed.

Asenath had made him get rid of the undeveloped moustache, but there was more than that.

He looked soberer and more thoughtful, his habitual pout of childish rebelliousness being

exchanged for a look almost of genuine sadness. I was puzzled to decide whether I liked or

disliked the change. Certainly, he seemed for the moment more normally adult than ever

before. Perhaps the marriage was a good thing—might not the change of dependence form a

start toward actual neutralisation, leading ultimately to responsible independence? He came

alone, for Asenath was very busy. She had brought a vast store of books and apparatus from

Innsmouth (Derby shuddered as he spoke the name), and was finishing the restoration of the

Crowninshield house and grounds.

Her home in—that town—was a rather disquieting place, but certain objects in it had taught

him some surprising things. He was progressing fast in esoteric lore now that he had

Asenath‘s guidance. Some of the experiments she proposed were very daring and radical—

he did not feel at liberty to describe them—but he had confidence in her powers and

intentions. The three servants were very queer—an incredibly aged couple who had been with

old Ephraim and referred occasionally to him and to Asenath‘s dead mother in a cryptic way,

and a swarthy young wench who had marked anomalies of feature and seemed to exude a

perpetual odour of fish.

III.

For the next two years I saw less and less of Derby. A fortnight would sometimes slip by

without the familiar three-and-two strokes at the front door; and when he did call—or when, as

happened with increasing infrequency, I called on him—he was very little disposed to

converse on vital topics. He had become secretive about those occult studies which he used

to describe and discuss so minutely, and preferred not to talk of his wife. She had aged

tremendously since her marriage, till now—oddly enough—she seemed the elder of the two.

Her face held the most concentratedly determined expression I had ever seen, and her whole

aspect seemed to gain a vague, unplaceable repulsiveness. My wife and son noticed it as

much as I, and we all ceased gradually to call on her—for which, Edward admitted in one of

his boyishly tactless moments, she was unmitigatedly grateful. Occasionally the Derbys would

go on long trips—ostensibly to Europe, though Edward sometimes hinted at obscurer

destinations.

It was after the first year that people began talking about the change in Edward Derby. It was

very casual talk, for the change was purely psychological; but it brought up some interesting

points. Now and then, it seemed, Edward was observed to wear an expression and to do

things wholly incompatible with his usual flabby nature. For example—although in the old

days he could not drive a car, he was now seen occasionally to dash into or out of the old

Crowninshield driveway with Asenath‘s powerful Packard, handling it like a master, and

meeting traffic entanglements with a skill and determination utterly alien to his accustomed

nature. In such cases he seemed always to be just back from some trip or just starting on

one—what sort of trip, no one could guess, although he mostly favoured the Innsmouth road.

Oddly, the metamorphosis did not seem altogether pleasing. People said he looked too much

like his wife, or like old Ephraim Waite himself, in these moments—or perhaps these moments

seemed unnatural because they were so rare. Sometimes, hours after starting out in this way,

he would return listlessly sprawled on the rear seat of the car while an obviously hired

chauffeur or mechanic drove. Also, his preponderant aspect on the streets during his

decreasing round of social contacts (including, I may say, his calls on me) was the old-time

indecisive one—its irresponsible childishness even more marked than in the past. While

Asenath‘s face aged, Edward‘s—aside from those exceptional occasions—actually relaxed

into a kind of exaggerated immaturity, save when a trace of the new sadness or

understanding would flash across it. It was really very puzzling. Meanwhile the Derbys almost

dropped out of the gay college circle—not through their own disgust, we heard, but because

something about their present studies shocked even the most callous of the other decadents.

It was in the third year of the marriage that Edward began to hint openly to me of a certain

fear and dissatisfaction. He would let fall remarks about things ‗going too far‘, and would talk

darkly about the need of ‗saving his identity‘. At first I ignored such references, but in time I

began to question him guardedly, remembering what my friend‘s daughter had said about

Asenath‘s hypnotic influence over the other girls at school—the cases where students had

thought they were in her body looking across the room at themselves. This questioning

seemed to make him at once alarmed and grateful, and once he mumbled something about

having a serious talk with me later.

About this time old Mr. Derby died, for which I was afterward very thankful. Edward was badly

upset, though by no means disorganised. He had seen astonishingly little of his parent since

his marriage, for Asenath had concentrated in herself all his vital sense of family linkage.

Some called him callous in his loss—especially since those jaunty and confident moods in the

car began to increase. He now wished to move back into the old Derby mansion, but Asenath

insisted on staying in the Crowninshield house, to which she had become well adjusted.

Not long afterward my wife heard a curious thing from a friend—one of the few who had not

dropped the Derbys. She had been out to the end of High St. to call on the couple, and had

seen a car shoot briskly out of the drive with Edward‘s oddly confident and almost sneering

face above the wheel. Ringing the bell, she had been told by the repulsive wench that

Asenath was also out; but had chanced to look up at the house in leaving. There, at one of

Edward‘s library windows, she had glimpsed a hastily withdrawn face—a face whose

expression of pain, defeat, and wistful hopelessness was poignant beyond description. It

was—incredibly enough in view of its usual domineering cast—Asenath‘s; yet the caller had

vowed that in that instant the sad, muddled eyes of poor Edward were gazing out from it.

Edward‘s calls now grew a trifle more frequent, and his hints occasionally became concrete.

What he said was not to be believed, even in centuried and legend-haunted Arkham; but he

threw out his dark lore with a sincerity and convincingness which made one fear for his sanity.

He talked about terrible meetings in lonely places, of Cyclopean ruins in the heart of the

Maine woods beneath which vast staircases lead down to abysses of nighted secrets, of

complex angles that lead through invisible walls to other regions of space and time, and of

hideous exchanges of personality that permitted explorations in remote and forbidden places,

on other worlds, and in different space-time continua.

He would now and then back up certain crazy hints by exhibiting objects which utterly

nonplussed me—elusively coloured and bafflingly textured objects like nothing ever heard of

on earth, whose insane curves and surfaces answered no conceivable purpose and followed

no conceivable geometry. These things, he said, came ‗from outside‘; and his wife knew how

to get them. Sometimes—but always in frightened and ambiguous whispers—he would

suggest things about old Ephraim Waite, whom he had seen occasionally at the college

library in the old days. These adumbrations were never specific, but seemed to revolve

around some especially horrible doubt as to whether the old wizard were really dead—in a

spiritual as well as corporeal sense.

At times Derby would halt abruptly in his revelations, and I wondered whether Asenath could

possibly have divined his speech at a distance and cut him off through some unknown sort of

telepathic mesmerism—some power of the kind she had displayed at school. Certainly, she

suspected that he told me things, for as the weeks passed she tried to stop his visits with

words and glances of a most inexplicable potency. Only with difficulty could he get to see me,

for although he would pretend to be going somewhere else, some invisible force would

generally clog his motions or make him forget his destination for the time being. His visits

usually came when Asenath was away—‗away in her own body‘, as he once oddly put it. She

always found out later—the servants watched his goings and comings—but evidently she

thought it inexpedient to do anything drastic.

IV.

Derby had been married more than three years on that August day when I got the telegram

from Maine. I had not seen him for two months, but had heard he was away ―on business‖.

Asenath was supposed to be with him, though watchful gossips declared there was someone

upstairs in the house behind the doubly curtained windows. They had watched the purchases

made by the servants. And now the town marshal of Chesuncook had wired of the draggled

madman who stumbled out of the woods with delirious ravings and screamed to me for

protection. It was Edward—and he had been just able to recall his own name and my name

and address.

Chesuncook is close to the wildest, deepest, and least explored forest belt in Maine, and it

took a whole day of feverish jolting through fantastic and forbidding scenery to get there in a

car. I found Derby in a cell at the town farm, vacillating between frenzy and apathy. He knew

me at once, and began pouring out a meaningless, half-incoherent torrent of words in my

direction.

―Dan—for God‘s sake! The pit of the shoggoths! Down the six thousand steps . . . the

abomination of abominations . . . I never would let her take me, and then I found myself there.

. . . Iä! Shub-Niggurath! . . . The shape rose up from the altar, and there were 500 that howled.

. . . The Hooded Thing bleated ‗Kamog! Kamog!‘—that was old Ephraim‘s secret name in the

coven. . . . I was there, where she promised she wouldn‘t take me. . . . A minute before I was

locked in the library, and then I was there where she had gone with my body—in the place of

utter blasphemy, the unholy pit where the black realm begins and the watcher guards the

gate. . . . I saw a shoggoth—it changed shape. . . . I can‘t stand it. . . . I won‘t stand it. . . . I‘ll

kill her if she ever sends me there again. . . . I‘ll kill that entity . . . her, him, it . . . I‘ll kill it! I‘ll kill

it with my own hands!‖

It took me an hour to quiet him, but he subsided at last. The next day I got him decent clothes

in the village, and set out with him for Arkham. His fury of hysteria was spent, and he was

inclined to be silent; though he began muttering darkly to himself when the car passed

through Augusta—as if the sight of a city aroused unpleasant memories. It was clear that he

did not wish to go home; and considering the fantastic delusions he seemed to have about his

wife—delusions undoubtedly springing from some actual hypnotic ordeal to which he had

been subjected—I thought it would be better if he did not. I would, I resolved, put him up

myself for a time; no matter what unpleasantness it would make with Asenath. Later I would

help him get a divorce, for most assuredly there were mental factors which made this

marriage suicidal for him. When we struck open country again Derby‘s muttering faded away,

and I let him nod and drowse on the seat beside me as I drove.

During our sunset dash through Portland the muttering commenced again, more distinctly

than before, and as I listened I caught a stream of utterly insane drivel about Asenath. The

extent to which she had preyed on Edward‘s nerves was plain, for he had woven a whole set

of hallucinations around her. His present predicament, he mumbled furtively, was only one of

a long series. She was getting hold of him, and he knew that some day she would never let

go. Even now she probably let him go only when she had to, because she couldn‘t hold on

long at a time. She constantly took his body and went to nameless places for nameless rites,

leaving him in her body and locking him upstairs—but sometimes she couldn‘t hold on, and

he would find himself suddenly in his own body again in some far-off, horrible, and perhaps

unknown place. Sometimes she‘d get hold of him again and sometimes she couldn‘t. Often he

was left stranded somewhere as I had found him . . . time and again he had to find his way

home from frightful distances, getting somebody to drive the car after he found it.

The worst thing was that she was holding on to him longer and longer at a time. She wanted

to be a man—to be fully human—that was why she got hold of him. She had sensed the

mixture of fine-wrought brain and weak will in him. Some day she would crowd him out and

disappear with his body—disappear to become a great magician like her father and leave him

marooned in that female shell that wasn‘t even quite human. Yes, he knew about the

Innsmouth blood now. There had been traffick with things from the sea—it was horrible. . . .

And old Ephraim—he had known the secret, and when he grew old did a hideous thing to

keep alive . . . he wanted to live forever . . . Asenath would succeed—one successful

demonstration had taken place already.

As Derby muttered on I turned to look at him closely, verifying the impression of change which

an earlier scrutiny had given me. Paradoxically, he seemed in better shape than usual—

harder, more normally developed, and without the trace of sickly flabbiness caused by his

indolent habits. It was as if he had been really active and properly exercised for the first time

in his coddled life, and I judged that Asenath‘s force must have pushed him into unwonted

channels of motion and alertness. But just now his mind was in a pitiable state; for he was

mumbling wild extravagances about his wife, about black magic, about old Ephraim, and

about some revelation which would convince even me. He repeated names which I

recognised from bygone browsings in forbidden volumes, and at times made me shudder with

a certain thread of mythological consistency—of convincing coherence—which ran through

his maundering. Again and again he would pause, as if to gather courage for some final and

terrible disclosure.

―Dan, Dan, don‘t you remember him—the wild eyes and the unkempt beard that never turned

white? He glared at me once, and I never forgot it. Now she glares that way. And I know why!

He found it in the Necronomicon—the formula. I don‘t dare tell you the page yet, but when I

do you can read and understand. Then you will know what has engulfed me. On, on, on, on—

body to body to body—he means never to die. The life-glow—he knows how to break the link

. . . it can flicker on a while even when the body is dead. I‘ll give you hints, and maybe you‘ll

guess. Listen, Dan—do you know why my wife always takes such pains with that silly

backhand writing? Have you ever seen a manuscript of old Ephraim‘s? Do you want to know

why I shivered when I saw some hasty notes Asenath had jotted down?

―Asenath . . . is there such a person? Why did they half think there was poison in old

Ephraim‘s stomach? Why do the Gilmans whisper about the way he shrieked—like a

frightened child—when he went mad and Asenath locked him up in the padded attic room

where—the other—had been? Was it old Ephraim’s soul that was locked in? Who locked in

whom? Why had he been looking for months for someone with a fine mind and a weak will?

Why did he curse that his daughter wasn‘t a son? Tell me, Daniel Upton—what devilish

exchange was perpetrated in the house of horror where that blasphemous monster had his

trusting, weak-willed, half-human child at his mercy? Didn‘t he make it permanent—as she‘ll

do in the end with me? Tell me why that thing that calls itself Asenath writes differently when

off guard, so that you can’t tell its script from . . .”

Then the thing happened. Derby‘s voice was rising to a thin treble scream as he raved, when

suddenly it was shut off with an almost mechanical click. I thought of those other occasions at

my home when his confidences had abruptly ceased—when I had half fancied that some

obscure telepathic wave of Asenath‘s mental force was intervening to keep him silent. This,

though, was something altogether different—and, I felt, infinitely more horrible. The face

beside me was twisted almost unrecognisably for a moment, while through the whole body

there passed a shivering motion—as if all the bones, organs, muscles, nerves, and glands

were readjusting themselves to a radically different posture, set of stresses, and general

personality.

Just where the supreme horror lay, I could not for my life tell; yet there swept over me such a

swamping wave of sickness and repulsion—such a freezing, petrifying sense of utter alienage

and abnormality—that my grasp of the wheel grew feeble and uncertain. The figure beside me

seemed less like a lifelong friend than like some monstrous intrusion from outer space—some

damnable, utterly accursed focus of unknown and malign cosmic forces.

I had faltered only a moment, but before another moment was over my companion had seized

the wheel and forced me to change places with him. The dusk was now very thick, and the

lights of Portland far behind, so I could not see much of his face. The blaze of his eyes,

though, was phenomenal; and I knew that he must now be in that queerly energised state—

so unlike his usual self—which so many people had noticed. It seemed odd and incredible

that listless Edward Derby—he who could never assert himself, and who had never learned to

drive—should be ordering me about and taking the wheel of my own car, yet that was

precisely what had happened. He did not speak for some time, and in my inexplicable horror I

was glad he did not.

In the lights of Biddeford and Saco I saw his firmly set mouth, and shivered at the blaze of his

eyes. The people were right—he did look damnably like his wife and like old Ephraim when in

these moods. I did not wonder that the moods were disliked—there was certainly something

unnatural and diabolic in them, and I felt the sinister element all the more because of the wild

ravings I had been hearing. This man, for all my lifelong knowledge of Edward Pickman

Derby, was a stranger—an intrusion of some sort from the black abyss.

He did not speak until we were on a dark stretch of road, and when he did his voice seemed

utterly unfamiliar. It was deeper, firmer, and more decisive than I had ever known it to be;

while its accent and pronunciation were altogether changed—though vaguely, remotely, and

rather disturbingly recalling something I could not quite place. There was, I thought, a trace of

very profound and very genuine irony in the timbre—not the flashy, meaninglessly jaunty

pseudo-irony of the callow ―sophisticate‖, which Derby had habitually affected, but something

grim, basic, pervasive, and potentially evil. I marvelled at the self-possession so soon

following the spell of panic-struck muttering.

―I hope you‘ll forget my attack back there, Upton,‖ he was saying. ―You know what my nerves

are, and I guess you can excuse such things. I‘m enormously grateful, of course, for this lift

home.

―And you must forget, too, any crazy things I may have been saying about my wife—and

about things in general. That‘s what comes from overstudy in a field like mine. My philosophy

is full of bizarre concepts, and when the mind gets worn out it cooks up all sorts of imaginary

concrete applications. I shall take a rest from now on—you probably won‘t see me for some

time, and you needn‘t blame Asenath for it.

―This trip was a bit queer, but it‘s really very simple. There are certain Indian relics in the north

woods—standing stones, and all that—which mean a good deal in folklore, and Asenath and I

are following that stuff up. It was a hard search, so I seem to have gone off my head. I must

send somebody for the car when I get home. A month‘s relaxation will put me back on my

feet.‖

I do not recall just what my own part of the conversation was, for the baffling alienage of my

seatmate filled all my consciousness. With every moment my feeling of elusive cosmic horror

increased, till at length I was in a virtual delirium of longing for the end of the drive. Derby did

not offer to relinquish the wheel, and I was glad of the speed with which Portsmouth and

Newburyport flashed by.

At the junction where the main highway runs inland and avoids Innsmouth I was half afraid my

driver would take the bleak shore road that goes through that damnable place. He did not,

however, but darted rapidly past Rowley and Ipswich toward our destination. We reached

Arkham before midnight, and found the lights still on at the old Crowninshield house. Derby

left the car with a hasty repetition of his thanks, and I drove home alone with a curious feeling

of relief. It had been a terrible drive—all the more terrible because I could not quite tell why—

and I did not regret Derby‘s forecast of a long absence from my company.

The next two months were full of rumours. People spoke of seeing Derby more and more in

his new energised state, and Asenath was scarcely ever in to her few callers. I had only one

visit from Edward, when he called briefly in Asenath‘s car—duly reclaimed from wherever he

had left it in Maine—to get some books he had lent me. He was in his new state, and paused

only long enough for some evasively polite remarks. It was plain that he had nothing to

discuss with me when in this condition—and I noticed that he did not even trouble to give the

old three-and-two signal when ringing the doorbell. As on that evening in the car, I felt a faint,

infinitely deep horror which I could not explain; so that his swift departure was a prodigious

relief.

In mid-September Derby was away for a week, and some of the decadent college set talked

knowingly of the matter—hinting at a meeting with a notorious cult-leader, lately expelled from

England, who had established headquarters in New York. For my part I could not get that

strange ride from Maine out of my head. The transformation I had witnessed had affected me

profoundly, and I caught myself again and again trying to account for the thing—and for the

extreme horror it had inspired in me.

But the oddest rumours were those about the sobbing in the old Crowninshield house. The

voice seemed to be a woman‘s, and some of the younger people thought it sounded like

Asenath‘s. It was heard only at rare intervals, and would sometimes be choked off as if by

force. There was talk of an investigation, but this was dispelled one day when Asenath

appeared in the streets and chatted in a sprightly way with a large number of

acquaintances—apologising for her recent absences and speaking incidentally about the

nervous breakdown and hysteria of a guest from Boston. The guest was never seen, but

Asenath‘s appearance left nothing to be said. And then someone complicated matters by

whispering that the sobs had once or twice been in a man‘s voice.

One evening in mid-October I heard the familiar three-and-two ring at the front door.

Answering it myself, I found Edward on the steps, and saw in a moment that his personality

was the old one which I had not encountered since the day of his ravings on that terrible ride

from Chesuncook. His face was twitching with a mixture of odd emotions in which fear and

triumph seemed to share dominion, and he looked furtively over his shoulder as I closed the

door behind him.

Following me clumsily to the study, he asked for some whiskey to steady his nerves. I forbore

to question him, but waited till he felt like beginning whatever he wanted to say. At length he

ventured some information in a choking voice.

―Asenath has gone, Dan. We had a long talk last night while the servants were out, and I

made her promise to stop preying on me. Of course I had certain—certain occult defences I

never told you about. She had to give in, but got frightfully angry. Just packed up and started

for New York—walked right out to catch the 8:20 in to Boston. I suppose people will talk, but I

can‘t help that. You needn‘t mention that there was any trouble—just say she‘s gone on a long

research trip.

―She‘s probably going to stay with one of her horrible groups of devotees. I hope she‘ll go

west and get a divorce—anyhow, I‘ve made her promise to keep away and let me alone. It

was horrible, Dan—she was stealing my body—crowding me out—making a prisoner of me. I

laid low and pretended to let her do it, but I had to be on the watch. I could plan if I was

careful, for she can‘t read my mind literally, or in detail. All she could read of my planning was

a sort of general mood of rebellion—and she always thought I was helpless. Never thought I

could get the best of her . . . but I had a spell or two that worked.‖

Derby looked over his shoulder and took some more whiskey.

―I paid off those damned servants this morning when they got back. They were ugly about it,

and asked questions, but they went. They‘re her kind—Innsmouth people—and were hand

and glove with her. I hope they‘ll let me alone—I didn‘t like the way they laughed when they

walked away. I must get as many of Dad‘s old servants again as I can. I‘ll move back home

now.

―I suppose you think I‘m crazy, Dan—but Arkham history ought to hint at things that back up

what I‘ve told you—and what I‘m going to tell you. You‘ve seen one of the changes, too—in

your car after I told you about Asenath that day coming home from Maine. That was when she

got me—drove me out of my body. The last thing of the ride I remember was when I was all

worked up trying to tell you what that she-devil is. Then she got me, and in a flash I was back

at the house—in the library where those damned servants had me locked up—and in that

cursed fiend‘s body . . . that isn‘t even human. . . . You know, it was she you must have ridden

home with . . . that preying wolf in my body. . . . You ought to have known the difference!‖

I shuddered as Derby paused. Surely, I had known the difference—yet could I accept an

explanation as insane as this? But my distracted caller was growing even wilder.

―I had to save myself—I had to, Dan! She‘d have got me for good at Hallowmass—they hold a

Sabbat up there beyond Chesuncook, and the sacrifice would have clinched things. She‘d

have got me for good . . . she‘d have been I, and I‘d have been she . . . forever . . . too late. . .

. My body‘d have been hers for good. . . . She‘d have been a man, and fully human, just as

she wanted to be. . . . I suppose she‘d have put me out of the way—killed her own ex-body

with me in it, damn her, just as she did before—just as she, he, or it did before. . . .‖

Edward‘s face was now atrociously distorted, and he bent it uncomfortably close to mine as

his voice fell to a whisper.

―You must know what I hinted in the car—that she isn’t Asenath at all, but really old Ephraim

himself. I suspected it a year and a half ago, but I know it now. Her handwriting shews it when

she‘s off guard—sometimes she jots down a note in writing that‘s just like her father‘s

manuscripts, stroke for stroke—and sometimes she says things that nobody but an old man

like Ephraim could say. He changed forms with her when he felt death coming—she was the

only one he could find with the right kind of brain and a weak enough will—he got her body

permanently, just as she almost got mine, and then poisoned the old body he‘d put her into.

Haven‘t you seen old Ephraim‘s soul glaring out of that she-devil‘s eyes dozens of times . . .

and out of mine when she had control of my body?‖

The whisperer was panting, and paused for breath. I said nothing, and when he resumed his

voice was nearer normal. This, I reflected, was a case for the asylum, but I would not be the

one to send him there. Perhaps time and freedom from Asenath would do its work. I could see

that he would never wish to dabble in morbid occultism again.

―I‘ll tell you more later—I must have a long rest now. I‘ll tell you something of the forbidden

horrors she led me into—something of the age-old horrors that even now are festering in out-

of-the-way corners with a few monstrous priests to keep them alive. Some people know

things about the universe that nobody ought to know, and can do things that nobody ought to

be able to do. I‘ve been in it up to my neck, but that‘s the end. Today I‘d burn that damned

Necronomicon and all the rest if I were librarian at Miskatonic.

―But she can‘t get me now. I must get out of that accursed house as soon as I can, and settle

down at home. You‘ll help me, I know, if I need help. Those devilish servants, you know . . .

and if people should get too inquisitive about Asenath. You see, I can‘t give them her address.

. . . Then there are certain groups of searchers—certain cults, you know—that might

misunderstand our breaking up . . . some of them have damnably curious ideas and methods.

I know you‘ll stand by me if anything happens—even if I have to tell you a lot that will shock

you. . . .‖

I had Edward stay and sleep in one of the guest-chambers that night, and in the morning he

seemed calmer. We discussed certain possible arrangements for his moving back into the

Derby mansion, and I hoped he would lose no time in making the change. He did not call the

next evening, but I saw him frequently during the ensuing weeks. We talked as little as

possible about strange and unpleasant things, but discussed the renovation of the old Derby

house, and the travels which Edward promised to take with my son and me the following

summer.

Of Asenath we said almost nothing, for I saw that the subject was a peculiarly disturbing one.

Gossip, of course, was rife; but that was no novelty in connexion with the strange ménage at

the old Crowninshield house. One thing I did not like was what Derby‘s banker let fall in an

overexpansive mood at the Miskatonic Club—about the cheques Edward was sending

regularly to a Moses and Abigail Sargent and a Eunice Babson in Innsmouth. That looked as

if those evil-faced servants were extorting some kind of tribute from him—yet he had not

mentioned the matter to me.

I wished that the summer—and my son‘s Harvard vacation—would come, so that we could

get Edward to Europe. He was not, I soon saw, mending as rapidly as I had hoped he would;

for there was something a bit hysterical in his occasional exhilaration, while his moods of

fright and depression were altogether too frequent. The old Derby house was ready by

December, yet Edward constantly put off moving. Though he hated and seemed to fear the

Crowninshield place, he was at the same time queerly enslaved by it. He could not seem to

begin dismantling things, and invented every kind of excuse to postpone action. When I

pointed this out to him he appeared unaccountably frightened. His father‘s old butler—who

was there with other reacquired family servants—told me one day that Edward‘s occasional

prowlings about the house, and especially down cellar, looked odd and unwholesome to him. I

wondered if Asenath had been writing disturbing letters, but the butler said there was no mail

which could have come from her.

VI.

It was about Christmas that Derby broke down one evening while calling on me. I was

steering the conversation toward next summer‘s travels when he suddenly shrieked and

leaped up from his chair with a look of shocking, uncontrollable fright—a cosmic panic and

loathing such as only the nether gulfs of nightmare could bring to any sane mind.

―My brain! My brain! God, Dan—it‘s tugging—from beyond—knocking—clawing—that she-

devil—even now—Ephraim—Kamog! Kamog!—The pit of the shoggoths—Iä! Shub-

Niggurath! The Goat with a Thousand Young! . . .

―The flame—the flame . . . beyond body, beyond life . . . in the earth . . . oh, God! . . .‖

I pulled him back to his chair and poured some wine down his throat as his frenzy sank to a

dull apathy. He did not resist, but kept his lips moving as if talking to himself. Presently I

realised that he was trying to talk to me, and bent my ear to his mouth to catch the feeble

words.

― . . . again, again . . . she‘s trying . . . I might have known . . . nothing can stop that force; not

distance, nor magic, nor death . . . it comes and comes, mostly in the night . . . I can‘t leave . .

. it‘s horrible . . . oh, God, Dan, if you only knew as I do just how horrible it is. . . .”

When he had slumped down into a stupor I propped him with pillows and let normal sleep

overtake him. I did not call a doctor, for I knew what would be said of his sanity, and wished to

give nature a chance if I possibly could. He waked at midnight, and I put him to bed upstairs,

but he was gone by morning. He had let himself quietly out of the house—and his butler,

when called on the wire, said he was at home pacing restlessly about the library.

Edward went to pieces rapidly after that. He did not call again, but I went daily to see him. He

would always be sitting in his library, staring at nothing and having an air of abnormal

listening. Sometimes he talked rationally, but always on trivial topics. Any mention of his

trouble, of future plans, or of Asenath would send him into a frenzy. His butler said he had

frightful seizures at night, during which he might eventually do himself harm.

I had a long talk with his doctor, banker, and lawyer, and finally took the physician with two

specialist colleagues to visit him. The spasms that resulted from the first questions were

violent and pitiable—and that evening a closed car took his poor struggling body to the

Arkham Sanitarium. I was made his guardian and called on him twice weekly—almost

weeping to hear his wild shrieks, awesome whispers, and dreadful, droning repetitions of

such phrases as ―I had to do it—I had to do it . . . it‘ll get me . . . it‘ll get me . . . down there . . .

down there in the dark. . . . Mother, mother! Dan! Save me . . . save me. . . .‖

How much hope of recovery there was, no one could say; but I tried my best to be optimistic.

Edward must have a home if he emerged, so I transferred his servants to the Derby mansion,

which would surely be his sane choice. What to do about the Crowninshield place with its

complex arrangements and collections of utterly inexplicable objects I could not decide, so left

it momentarily untouched—telling the Derby housemaid to go over and dust the chief rooms

once a week, and ordering the furnace man to have a fire on those days.

The final nightmare came before Candlemas—heralded, in cruel irony, by a false gleam of

hope. One morning late in January the sanitarium telephoned to report that Edward‘s reason

had suddenly come back. His continuous memory, they said, was badly impaired; but sanity

itself was certain. Of course he must remain some time for observation, but there could be

little doubt of the outcome. All going well, he would surely be free in a week.

I hastened over in a flood of delight, but stood bewildered when a nurse took me to Edward‘s

room. The patient rose to greet me, extending his hand with a polite smile; but I saw in an

instant that he bore the strangely energised personality which had seemed so foreign to his

own nature—the competent personality I had found so vaguely horrible, and which Edward

himself had once vowed was the intruding soul of his wife. There was the same blazing

vision—so like Asenath‘s and old Ephraim‘s—and the same firm mouth; and when he spoke I

could sense the same grim, pervasive irony in his voice—the deep irony so redolent of

potential evil. This was the person who had driven my car through the night five months

before—the person I had not seen since that brief call when he had forgotten the old-time

doorbell signal and stirred such nebulous fears in me—and now he filled me with the same

dim feeling of blasphemous alienage and ineffable cosmic hideousness.

He spoke affably of arrangements for release—and there was nothing for me to do but

assent, despite some remarkable gaps in his recent memories. Yet I felt that something was

terribly, inexplicably wrong and abnormal. There were horrors in this thing that I could not

reach. This was a sane person—but was it indeed the Edward Derby I had known? If not, who

or what was it—and where was Edward? Ought it to be free or confined . . . or ought it to be

extirpated from the face of the earth? There was a hint of the abysmally sardonic in everything

the creature said—the Asenath-like eyes lent a special and baffling mockery to certain words

about the ‗early liberty earned by an especially close confinement’. I must have behaved very

awkwardly, and was glad to beat a retreat.

All that day and the next I racked my brain over the problem. What had happened? What sort

of mind looked out through those alien eyes in Edward‘s face? I could think of nothing but this

dimly terrible enigma, and gave up all efforts to perform my usual work. The second morning

the hospital called up to say that the recovered patient was unchanged, and by evening I was

close to a nervous collapse—a state I admit, though others will vow it coloured my

subsequent vision. I have nothing to say on this point except that no madness of mine could

account for all the evidence.

VII.

It was in the night—after that second evening—that stark, utter horror burst over me and

weighted my spirit with a black, clutching panic from which it can never shake free. It began

with a telephone call just before midnight. I was the only one up, and sleepily took down the

receiver in the library. No one seemed to be on the wire, and I was about to hang up and go

to bed when my ear caught a very faint suspicion of sound at the other end. Was someone

trying under great difficulties to talk? As I listened I thought I heard a sort of half-liquid

bubbling noise—―glub . . . glub . . . glub”—which had an odd suggestion of inarticulate,

unintelligible word and syllable divisions. I called, ―Who is it?‖ But the only answer was ―glub-

glub . . . glub-glub.” I could only assume that the noise was mechanical; but fancying that it

might be a case of a broken instrument able to receive but not to send, I added, ―I can‘t hear

you. Better hang up and try Information.‖ Immediately I heard the receiver go on the hook at

the other end.

This, I say, was just before midnight. When that call was traced afterward it was found to

come from the old Crowninshield house, though it was fully half a week from the housemaid‘s

day to be there. I shall only hint what was found at that house—the upheaval in a remote

cellar storeroom, the tracks, the dirt, the hastily rifled wardrobe, the baffling marks on the

telephone, the clumsily used stationery, and the detestable stench lingering over everything.

The police, poor fools, have their smug little theories, and are still searching for those sinister

discharged servants—who have dropped out of sight amidst the present furore. They speak of

a ghoulish revenge for things that were done, and say I was included because I was Edward‘s

best friend and adviser.

Idiots!—do they fancy those brutish clowns could have forged that handwriting? Do they fancy

they could have brought what later came? Are they blind to the changes in that body that was

Edward‘s? As for me, I now believe all that Edward Derby ever told me. There are horrors

beyond life‘s edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man‘s evil prying calls them

just within our range. Ephraim—Asenath—that devil called them in, and they engulfed Edward

as they are engulfing me.

Can I be sure that I am safe? Those powers survive the life of the physical form. The next

day—in the afternoon, when I pulled out of my prostration and was able to walk and talk

coherently—I went to the madhouse and shot him dead for Edward‘s and the world‘s sake,

but can I be sure till he is cremated? They are keeping the body for some silly autopsies by

different doctors—but I say he must be cremated. He must be cremated—he who was not

Edward Derby when I shot him. I shall go mad if he is not, for I may be the next. But my will is

not weak—and I shall not let it be undermined by the terrors I know are seething around it.

One life—Ephraim, Asenath, and Edward—who now? I will not be driven out of my body . . . I

will not change souls with that bullet-ridden lich in the madhouse!

But let me try to tell coherently of that final horror. I will not speak of what the police

persistently ignored—the tales of that dwarfed, grotesque, malodorous thing met by at least

three wayfarers in High St. just before two o‘clock, and the nature of the single footprints in

certain places. I will say only that just about two the doorbell and knocker waked me—

doorbell and knocker both, plied alternately and uncertainly in a kind of weak desperation,

and each trying to keep to Edward’s old signal of three-and-two strokes.

Roused from sound sleep, my mind leaped into a turmoil. Derby at the door—and

remembering the old code! That new personality had not remembered it . . . was Edward

suddenly back in his rightful state? Why was he here in such evident stress and haste? Had

he been released ahead of time, or had he escaped? Perhaps, I thought as I flung on a robe

and bounded downstairs, his return to his own self had brought raving and violence, revoking

his discharge and driving him to a desperate dash for freedom. Whatever had happened, he

was good old Edward again, and I would help him!

When I opened the door into the elm-arched blackness a gust of insufferably foetid wind

almost flung me prostrate. I choked in nausea, and for a second scarcely saw the dwarfed,

humped figure on the steps. The summons had been Edward‘s, but who was this foul, stunted

parody? Where had Edward had time to go? His ring had sounded only a second before the

door opened.

The caller had on one of Edward‘s overcoats—its bottom almost touching the ground, and its

sleeves rolled back yet still covering the hands. On the head was a slouch hat pulled low,

while a black silk muffler concealed the face. As I stepped unsteadily forward, the figure made

a semi-liquid sound like that I had heard over the telephone—―glub . . . glub . . .”—and thrust

at me a large, closely written paper impaled on the end of a long pencil. Still reeling from the

morbid and unaccountable foetor, I seized this paper and tried to read it in the light from the

doorway.

Beyond question, it was in Edward‘s script. But why had he written when he was close

enough to ring—and why was the script so awkward, coarse, and shaky? I could make out

nothing in the dim half light, so edged back into the hall, the dwarf figure clumping

mechanically after but pausing on the inner door‘s threshold. The odour of this singular

messenger was really appalling, and I hoped (not in vain, thank God!) that my wife would not

wake and confront it.

Then, as I read the paper, I felt my knees give under me and my vision go black. I was lying

on the floor when I came to, that accursed sheet still clutched in my fear-rigid hand. This is

what it said.

―Dan—go to the sanitarium and kill it. Exterminate it. It isn‘t Edward Derby any

more. She got me—it‘s Asenath—and she has been dead three months and a half.

I lied when I said she had gone away. I killed her. I had to. It was sudden, but we

were alone and I was in my right body. I saw a candlestick and smashed her head

in. She would have got me for good at Hallowmass.

―I buried her in the farther cellar storeroom under some old boxes and cleaned up

all the traces. The servants suspected next morning, but they have such secrets

that they dare not tell the police. I sent them off, but God knows what they—and

others of the cult—will do.

―I thought for a while I was all right, and then I felt the tugging at my brain. I knew

what it was—I ought to have remembered. A soul like hers—or Ephraim‘s—is half

detached, and keeps right on after death as long as the body lasts. She was

getting me—making me change bodies with her—seizing my body and putting me

in that corpse of hers buried in the cellar.

―I knew what was coming—that‘s why I snapped and had to go to the asylum. Then

it came—I found myself choked in the dark—in Asenath‘s rotting carcass down

there in the cellar under the boxes where I put it. And I knew she must be in my

body at the sanitarium—permanently, for it was after Hallowmass, and the sacrifice

would work even without her being there—sane, and ready for release as a

menace to the world. I was desperate, and in spite of everything I clawed my way

out.

―I‘m too far gone to talk—I couldn‘t manage to telephone—but I can still write. I‘ll

get fixed up somehow and bring you this last word and warning. Kill that fiend if

you value the peace and comfort of the world. See that it is cremated. If you don‘t,

it will live on and on, body to body forever, and I can‘t tell you what it will do. Keep

clear of black magic, Dan, it‘s the devil‘s business. Goodbye—you‘ve been a great

friend. Tell the police whatever they‘ll believe—and I‘m damnably sorry to drag all

this on you. I‘ll be at peace before long—this thing won‘t hold together much more.

Hope you can read this. And kill that thing—kill it.

Yours—Ed.‖

It was only afterward that I read the last half of this paper, for I had fainted at the end of the

third paragraph. I fainted again when I saw and smelled what cluttered up the threshold where

the warm air had struck it. The messenger would not move or have consciousness any more.

The butler, tougher-fibred than I, did not faint at what met him in the hall in the morning.

Instead, he telephoned the police. When they came I had been taken upstairs to bed, but

the—other mass—lay where it had collapsed in the night. The men put handkerchiefs to their

noses.

The Evil Clergyman

(1933)

I was shewn into the attic chamber by a grave, intelligent-looking man with quiet clothes and

an iron-grey beard, who spoke to me in this fashion:

―Yes, he lived here—but I don‘t advise your doing anything. Your curiosity makes you

irresponsible. We never come here at night, and it‘s only because of his will that we keep it

this way. You know what he did. That abominable society took charge at last, and we don‘t

know where he is buried. There was no way the law or anything else could reach the society.

―I hope you won‘t stay till after dark. And I beg of you to let that thing on the table—the thing

that looks like a match box—alone. We don‘t know what it is, but we suspect it has something

to do with what he did. We even avoid looking at it very steadily.‖

After a time the man left me alone in the attic room. It was very dingy and dusty, and only

primitively furnished, but it had a neatness which shewed it was not a slum-denizen‘s

quarters. There were shelves full of theological and classical books, and another bookcase

containing treatises on magic—Paracelsus, Albertus Magnus, Trithemius, Hermes

Trismegistus, Borellus, and others in strange alphabets whose titles I could not decipher. The

furniture was very plain. There was a door, but it led only into a closet. The only egress was

the aperture in the floor up to which the crude, steep staircase led. The windows were of

bull‘s-eye pattern, and the black oak beams bespoke unbelievable antiquity. Plainly, this

house was of the old world. I seemed to know where I was, but cannot recall what I then

knew. Certainly the town was not London. My impression is of a small seaport.

The small object on the table fascinated me intensely. I seemed to know what to do with it, for

I drew a pocket electric light—or what looked like one—out of my pocket and nervously tested

its flashes. The light was not white but violet, and seemed less like true light than like some

radio-active bombardment. I recall that I did not regard it as a common flashlight—indeed, I

had a common flashlight in another pocket.

It was getting dark, and the ancient roofs and chimney-pots outside looked very queer

through the bull‘s-eye window-panes. Finally I summoned up courage and propped the small

object up on the table against a book—then turned the rays of the peculiar violet light upon it.

The light seemed now to be more like a rain or hail of small violet particles than like a

continuous beam. As the particles struck the glassy surface at the centre of the strange

device, they seemed to produce a crackling noise like the sputtering of a vacuum tube

through which sparks are passed. The dark glassy surface displayed a pinkish glow, and a

vague white shape seemed to be taking form at its centre. Then I noticed that I was not alone

in the room—and put the ray-projector back in my pocket.

But the newcomer did not speak—nor did I hear any sound whatever during all the

immediately following moments. Everything was shadowy pantomime, as if seen at a vast

distance through some intervening haze—although on the other hand the newcomer and all

subsequent comers loomed large and close, as if both near and distant, according to some

abnormal geometry.

The newcomer was a thin, dark man of medium height attired in the clerical garb of the

Anglican church. He was apparently about thirty years old, with a sallow, olive complexion

and fairly good features, but an abnormally high forehead. His black hair was well cut and

neatly brushed, and he was clean-shaven though blue-chinned with a heavy growth of beard.

He wore rimless spectacles with steel bows. His build and lower facial features were like other

clergymen I had seen, but he had a vastly higher forehead, and was darker and more

intelligent-looking—also more subtly and concealedly evil-looking. At the present moment—

having just lighted a faint oil lamp—he looked nervous, and before I knew it he was casting all

his magical books into a fireplace on the window side of the room (where the wall slanted

sharply) which I had not noticed before. The flames devoured the volumes greedily—leaping

up in strange colours and emitting indescribably hideous odours as the strangely

hieroglyphed leaves and wormy bindings succumbed to the devastating element. All at once I

saw there were others in the room—grave-looking men in clerical costume, one of whom

wore the bands and knee-breeches of a bishop. Though I could hear nothing, I could see that

they were bringing a decision of vast import to the first-comer. They seemed to hate and fear

him at the same time, and he seemed to return these sentiments. His face set itself into a

grim expression, but I could see his right hand shaking as he tried to grip the back of a chair.

The bishop pointed to the empty case and to the fireplace (where the flames had died down

amidst a charred, non-committal mass), and seemed filled with a peculiar loathing. The first-

comer then gave a wry smile and reached out with his left hand toward the small object on the

table. Everyone then seemed frightened. The procession of clerics began filing down the

steep stairs through the trap-door in the floor, turning and making menacing gestures as they

left. The bishop was last to go.

The first-comer now went to a cupboard on the inner side of the room and extracted a coil of

rope. Mounting a chair, he attached one end of the rope to a hook in the great exposed

central beam of black oak, and began making a noose with the other end. Realising he was

about to hang himself, I started forward to dissuade or save him. He saw me and ceased his

preparations, looking at me with a kind of triumph which puzzled and disturbed me. He slowly

stepped down from the chair and began gliding toward me with a positively wolfish grin on his

dark, thin-lipped face.

I felt somehow in deadly peril, and drew out the peculiar ray-projector as a weapon of

defence. Why I thought it could help me, I do not know. I turned it on—full in his face, and saw

the sallow features glow first with violet and then with pinkish light. His expression of wolfish

exultation began to be crowded aside by a look of profound fear—which did not, however,

wholly displace the exultation. He stopped in his tracks—then, flailing his arms wildly in the

air, began to stagger backward. I saw he was edging toward the open stair-well in the floor,

and tried to shout a warning, but he did not hear me. In another instant he had lurched

backward through the opening and was lost to view.

I found difficulty in moving toward the stair-well, but when I did get there I found no crushed

body on the floor below. Instead there was a clatter of people coming up with lanterns, for the

spell of phantasmal silence had broken, and I once more heard sounds and saw figures as

normally tri-dimensional. Something had evidently drawn a crowd to this place. Had there

been a noise I had not heard? Presently the two people (simply villagers, apparently) farthest

in the lead saw me—and stood paralysed. One of them shrieked loudly and reverberently:

―Ahrrh! . . . It be ‘ee, zur? Again?‖

Then they all turned and fled frantically. All, that is, but one. When the crowd was gone I saw

the grave-bearded man who had brought me to this place—standing alone with a lantern. He

was gazing at me gaspingly and fascinatedly, but did not seem afraid. Then he began to

ascend the stairs, and joined me in the attic. He spoke:

―So you didn’t let it alone! I‘m sorry. I know what has happened. It happened once before, but

the man got frightened and shot himself. You ought not to have made him come back. You

know what he wants. But you mustn‘t get frightened like the other man he got. Something

very strange and terrible has happened to you, but it didn‘t get far enough to hurt your mind

and personality. If you‘ll keep cool, and accept the need for making certain radical

readjustments in your life, you can keep right on enjoying the world, and the fruits of your

scholarship. But you can‘t live here—and I don‘t think you‘ll wish to go back to London. I‘d

advise America.

―You mustn‘t try anything more with that—thing. Nothing can be put back now. It would only

make matters worse to do—or summon—anything. You are not as badly off as you might

be—but you must get out of here at once and stay away. You‘d better thank heaven it didn‘t

go further. . . .

―I‘m going to prepare you as bluntly as I can. There‘s been a certain change—in your personal

appearance. He always causes that. But in a new country you can get used to it. There‘s a

mirror up at the other end of the room, and I‘m going to take you to it. You‘ll get a shock—

though you will see nothing repulsive.‖

I was now shaking with a deadly fear, and the bearded man almost had to hold me up as he

walked me across the room to the mirror, the faint lamp (i.e., that formerly on the table, not

the still fainter lantern he had brought) in his free hand. This is what I saw in the glass:

A thin, dark man of medium stature attired in the clerical garb of the Anglican church,

apparently about thirty, and with rimless, steel-bowed glasses glistening beneath a sallow,

olive forehead of abnormal height.

It was the silent first-comer who had burned his books.

For all the rest of my life, in outward form, I was to be that man!

Return to Table of Contents

The Book

(1933)

My memories are very confused. There is even much doubt as to where they begin; for at

times I feel appalling vistas of years stretching behind me, while at other times it seems as if

the present moment were an isolated point in a grey, formless infinity. I am not even certain

how I am communicating this message. While I know I am speaking, I have a vague

impression that some strange and perhaps terrible mediation will be needed to bear what I

say to the points where I wish to be heard. My identity, too, is bewilderingly cloudy. I seem to

have suffered a great shock—perhaps from some utterly monstrous outgrowth of my cycles of

unique, incredible experience.

These cycles of experience, of course, all stem from that worm-riddled book. I remember

when I found it—in a dimly lighted place near the black, oily river where the mists always

swirl. That place was very old, and the ceiling-high shelves full of rotting volumes reached

back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. There were, besides, great

formless heaps of books on the floor and in crude bins; and it was in one of these heaps that I

found the thing. I never learned its title, for the early pages were missing; but it fell open

toward the end and gave me a glimpse of something which sent my senses reeling.

There was a formula—a sort of list of things to say and do—which I recognised as something

black and forbidden; something which I had read of before in furtive paragraphs of mixed

abhorrence and fascination penned by those strange ancient delvers into the universe‘s

guarded secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb. It was a key—a guide—to certain

gateways and transitions of which mystics have dreamed and whispered since the race was

young, and which lead to freedoms and discoveries beyond the three dimensions and realms

of life and matter that we know. Not for centuries had any man recalled its vital substance or

known where to find it, but this book was very old indeed. No printing-press, but the hand of

some half-crazed monk, had traced these ominous Latin phrases in uncials of awesome

antiquity.

I remember how the old man leered and tittered, and made a curious sign with his hand when

I bore it away. He had refused to take pay for it, and only long afterward did I guess why. As I

hurried home through those narrow, winding, mist-choked waterfront streets I had a frightful

impression of being stealthily followed by softly padding feet. The centuried, tottering houses

on both sides seemed alive with a fresh and morbid malignity—as if some hitherto closed

channel of evil understanding had abruptly been opened. I felt that those walls and

overhanging gables of mildewed brick and fungous plaster and timber—with fishy, eye-like,

diamond-paned windows that leered—could hardly desist from advancing and crushing me . .

. yet I had read only the least fragment of that blasphemous rune before closing the book and

bringing it away.

I remember how I read the book at last—white-faced, and locked in the attic room that I had

long devoted to strange searchings. The great house was very still, for I had not gone up till

after midnight. I think I had a family then—though the details are very uncertain—and I know

there were many servants. Just what the year was, I cannot say; for since then I have known

many ages and dimensions, and have had all my notions of time dissolved and refashioned. It

was by the light of candles that I read—I recall the relentless dripping of the wax—and there

were chimes that came every now and then from distant belfries. I seemed to keep track of

those chimes with a peculiar intentness, as if I feared to hear some very remote, intruding

note among them.

Then came the first scratching and fumbling at the dormer window that looked out high above

the other roofs of the city. It came as I droned aloud the ninth verse of that primal lay, and I

knew amidst my shudders what it meant. For he who passes the gateways always wins a

shadow, and never again can he be alone. I had evoked—and the book was indeed all I had

suspected. That night I passed the gateway to a vortex of twisted time and vision, and when

morning found me in the attic room I saw in the walls and shelves and fittings that which I had

never seen before.

Nor could I ever after see the world as I had known it. Mixed with the present scene was

always a little of the past and a little of the future, and every once-familiar object loomed alien

in the new perspective brought by my widened sight. From then on I walked in a fantastic

dream of unknown and half-known shapes; and with each new gateway crossed, the less

plainly could I recognise the things of the narrow sphere to which I had so long been bound.

What I saw about me none else saw; and I grew doubly silent and aloof lest I be thought mad.

Dogs had a fear of me, for they felt the outside shadow which never left my side. But still I

read more—in hidden, forgotten books and scrolls to which my new vision led me—and

pushed through fresh gateways of space and being and life-patterns toward the core of the

unknown cosmos.

I remember the night I made the five concentric circles of fire on the floor, and stood in the

innermost one chanting that monstrous litany the messenger from Tartary had brought. The

walls melted away, and I was swept by a black wind through gulfs of fathomless grey with the

needle-like pinnacles of unknown mountains miles below me. After a while there was utter

blackness, and then the light of myriad stars forming strange, alien constellations. Finally I

saw a green-litten plain far below me, and discerned on it the twisted towers of a city built in

no fashion I had ever known or read of or dreamed of. As I floated closer to that city I saw a

great square building of stone in an open space, and felt a hideous fear clutching at me. I

screamed and struggled, and after a blankness was again in my attic room, sprawled flat over

the five phosphorescent circles on the floor. In that night‘s wandering there was no more of

strangeness than in many a former night‘s wandering; but there was more of terror because I

knew I was closer to those outside gulfs and worlds than I had ever been before. Thereafter I

was more cautious with my incantations, for I had no wish to be cut off from my body and from

the earth in unknown abysses whence I could never return.

Return to Table of Contents

The Shadow Out of Time

(1934)

After twenty-two years of nightmare and terror, saved only by a desperate conviction of the

mythical source of certain impressions, I am unwilling to vouch for the truth of that which I

think I found in Western Australia on the night of July 17–18, 1935. There is reason to hope

that my experience was wholly or partly an hallucination—for which, indeed, abundant causes

existed. And yet, its realism was so hideous that I sometimes find hope impossible. If the thing

did happen, then man must be prepared to accept notions of the cosmos, and of his own

place in the seething vortex of time, whose merest mention is paralysing. He must, too, be

placed on guard against a specific lurking peril which, though it will never engulf the whole

race, may impose monstrous and unguessable horrors upon certain venturesome members

of it. It is for this latter reason that I urge, with all the force of my being, a final abandonment

of all attempts at unearthing those fragments of unknown, primordial masonry which my

expedition set out to investigate.

Assuming that I was sane and awake, my experience on that night was such as has befallen

no man before. It was, moreover, a frightful confirmation of all I had sought to dismiss as myth

and dream. Mercifully there is no proof, for in my fright I lost the awesome object which

would—if real and brought out of that noxious abyss—have formed irrefutable evidence.

When I came upon the horror I was alone—and I have up to now told no one about it. I could

not stop the others from digging in its direction, but chance and the shifting sand have so far

saved them from finding it. Now I must formulate some definitive statement—not only for the

sake of my own mental balance, but to warn such others as may read it seriously.

These pages—much in whose earlier parts will be familiar to close readers of the general and

scientific press—are written in the cabin of the ship that is bringing me home. I shall give them

to my son, Prof. Wingate Peaslee of Miskatonic University—the only member of my family

who stuck to me after my queer amnesia of long ago, and the man best informed on the inner

facts of my case. Of all living persons, he is least likely to ridicule what I shall tell of that fateful

night. I did not enlighten him orally before sailing, because I think he had better have the

revelation in written form. Reading and re-reading at leisure will leave with him a more

convincing picture than my confused tongue could hope to convey. He can do as he thinks

best with this account—shewing it, with suitable comment, to any quarters where it will be

likely to accomplish good. It is for the sake of such readers as are unfamiliar with the earlier

phases of my case that I am prefacing the revelation itself with a fairly ample summary of its

background.

My name is Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee, and those who recall the newspaper tales of a

generation back—or the letters and articles in psychological journals six or seven years ago—

will know who and what I am. The press was filled with the details of my strange amnesia in

1908–13, and much was made of the traditions of horror, madness, and witchcraft which lurk

behind the ancient Massachusetts town then and now forming my place of residence. Yet I

would have it known that there is nothing whatever of the mad or sinister in my heredity and

early life. This is a highly important fact in view of the shadow which fell so suddenly upon me

from outside sources. It may be that centuries of dark brooding had given to crumbling,

whisper-haunted Arkham a peculiar vulnerability as regards such shadows—though even this

seems doubtful in the light of those other cases which I later came to study. But the chief point

is that my own ancestry and background are altogether normal. What came, came from

somewhere else—where, I even now hesitate to assert in plain words.

I am the son of Jonathan and Hannah (Wingate) Peaslee, both of wholesome old Haverhill

stock. I was born and reared in Haverhill—at the old homestead in Boardman Street near

Golden Hill—and did not go to Arkham till I entered Miskatonic University at the age of

eighteen. That was in 1889. After my graduation I studied economics at Harvard, and came

back to Miskatonic as Instructor of Political Economy in 1895. For thirteen years more my life

ran smoothly and happily. I married Alice Keezar of Haverhill in 1896, and my three children,

Robert K., Wingate, and Hannah, were born in 1898, 1900, and 1903, respectively. In 1898 I

became an associate professor, and in 1902 a full professor. At no time had I the least interest

in either occultism or abnormal psychology.

It was on Thursday, May 14, 1908, that the queer amnesia came. The thing was quite sudden,

though later I realised that certain brief, glimmering visions of several hours previous—chaotic

visions which disturbed me greatly because they were so unprecedented—must have formed

premonitory symptoms. My head was aching, and I had a singular feeling—altogether new to

me—that someone else was trying to get possession of my thoughts.

The collapse occurred about 10:20 a.m., while I was conducting a class in Political Economy

VI—history and present tendencies of economics—for juniors and a few sophomores. I began

to see strange shapes before my eyes, and to feel that I was in a grotesque room other than

the classroom. My thoughts and speech wandered from my subject, and the students saw

that something was gravely amiss. Then I slumped down, unconscious in my chair, in a stupor

from which no one could arouse me. Nor did my rightful faculties again look out upon the

daylight of our normal world for five years, four months, and thirteen days.

It is, of course, from others that I have learned what followed. I shewed no sign of

consciousness for sixteen and a half hours, though removed to my home at 27 Crane St. and

given the best of medical attention. At 3 a.m. May 15 my eyes opened and I began to speak,

but before long the doctors and my family were thoroughly frightened by the trend of my

expression and language. It was clear that I had no remembrance of my identity or of my

past, though for some reason I seemed anxious to conceal this lack of knowledge. My eyes

gazed strangely at the persons around me, and the flexions of my facial muscles were

altogether unfamiliar.

Even my speech seemed awkward and foreign. I used my vocal organs clumsily and

gropingly, and my diction had a curiously stilted quality, as if I had laboriously learned the

English language from books. The pronunciation was barbarously alien, whilst the idiom

seemed to include both scraps of curious archaism and expressions of a wholly

incomprehensible cast. Of the latter one in particular was very potently—even terrifiedly—

recalled by the youngest of the physicians twenty years afterward. For at that late period such

a phrase began to have an actual currency—first in England and then in the United States—

and though of much complexity and indisputable newness, it reproduced in every least

particular the mystifying words of the strange Arkham patient of 1908.

Physical strength returned at once, although I required an odd amount of re-education in the

use of my hands, legs, and bodily apparatus in general. Because of this and other handicaps

inherent in the mnemonic lapse, I was for some time kept under strict medical care. When I

saw that my attempts to conceal the lapse had failed, I admitted it openly, and became eager

for information of all sorts. Indeed, it seemed to the doctors that I had lost interest in my

proper personality as soon as I found the case of amnesia accepted as a natural thing. They

noticed that my chief efforts were to master certain points in history, science, art, language,

and folklore—some of them tremendously abstruse, and some childishly simple—which

remained, very oddly in many cases, outside my consciousness.

At the same time they noticed that I had an inexplicable command of many almost unknown

sorts of knowledge—a command which I seemed to wish to hide rather than display. I would

inadvertently refer, with casual assurance, to specific events in dim ages outside the range of

accepted history—passing off such references as a jest when I saw the surprise they created.

And I had a way of speaking of the future which two or three times caused actual fright. These

uncanny flashes soon ceased to appear, though some observers laid their vanishment more

to a certain furtive caution on my part than to any waning of the strange knowledge behind

them. Indeed, I seemed anomalously avid to absorb the speech, customs, and perspectives

of the age around me; as if I were a studious traveller from a far, foreign land.

As soon as permitted, I haunted the college library at all hours; and shortly began to arrange

for those odd travels, and special courses at American and European universities, which

evoked so much comment during the next few years. I did not at any time suffer from a lack of

learned contacts, for my case had a mild celebrity among the psychologists of the period. I

was lectured upon as a typical example of secondary personality—even though I seemed to

puzzle the lecturers now and then with some bizarre symptom or some queer trace of

carefully veiled mockery.

Of real friendliness, however, I encountered little. Something in my aspect and speech

seemed to excite vague fears and aversions in everyone I met, as if I were a being infinitely

removed from all that is normal and healthful. This idea of a black, hidden horror connected

with incalculable gulfs of some sort of distance was oddly widespread and persistent. My own

family formed no exception. From the moment of my strange waking my wife had regarded

me with extreme horror and loathing, vowing that I was some utter alien usurping the body of

her husband. In 1910 she obtained a legal divorce, nor would she ever consent to see me

even after my return to normalcy in 1913. These feelings were shared by my elder son and

my small daughter, neither of whom I have ever seen since.

Only my second son Wingate seemed able to conquer the terror and repulsion which my

change aroused. He indeed felt that I was a stranger, but though only eight years old held fast

to a faith that my proper self would return. When it did return he sought me out, and the courts

gave me his custody. In succeeding years he helped me with the studies to which I was

driven, and today at thirty-five he is a professor of psychology at Miskatonic. But I do not

wonder at the horror I caused—for certainly, the mind, voice, and facial expression of the

being that awaked on May 15, 1908 were not those of Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee.

I will not attempt to tell much of my life from 1908 to 1913, since readers may glean all the

outward essentials—as I largely had to do—from files of old newspapers and scientific

journals. I was given charge of my funds, and spent them slowly and on the whole wisely, in

travel and in study at various centres of learning. My travels, however, were singular in the

extreme; involving long visits to remote and desolate places. In 1909 I spent a month in the

Himalayas, and in 1911 aroused much attention through a camel trip into the unknown

deserts of Arabia. What happened on those journeys I have never been able to learn. During

the summer of 1912 I chartered a ship and sailed in the Arctic north of Spitzbergen, afterward

shewing signs of disappointment. Later in that year I spent weeks alone beyond the limits of

previous or subsequent exploration in the vast limestone cavern systems of western

Virginia—black labyrinths so complex that no retracing of my steps could even be considered.

My sojourns at the universities were marked by abnormally rapid assimilation, as if the

secondary personality had an intelligence enormously superior to my own. I have found, also,

that my rate of reading and solitary study was phenomenal. I could master every detail of a

book merely by glancing over it as fast as I could turn the leaves; while my skill at interpreting

complex figures in an instant was veritably awesome. At times there appeared almost ugly

reports of my power to influence the thoughts and acts of others, though I seemed to have

taken care to minimise displays of this faculty.

Other ugly reports concerned my intimacy with leaders of occultist groups, and scholars

suspected of connexion with nameless bands of abhorrent elder-world hierophants. These

rumours, though never proved at the time, were doubtless stimulated by the known tenor of

some of my reading—for the consultation of rare books at libraries cannot be effected

secretly. There is tangible proof—in the form of marginal notes—that I went minutely through

such things as the Comte d‘Erlette‘s Cultes des Goules, Ludvig Prinn‘s De Vermis Mysteriis,

the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, the surviving fragments of the puzzling Book of

Eibon, and the dreaded Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred. Then, too, it is

undeniable that a fresh and evil wave of underground cult activity set in about the time of my

odd mutation.

In the summer of 1913 I began to display signs of ennui and flagging interest, and to hint to

various associates that a change might soon be expected in me. I spoke of returning

memories of my earlier life—though most auditors judged me insincere, since all the

recollections I gave were casual, and such as might have been learned from my old private

papers. About the middle of August I returned to Arkham and reopened my long-closed house

in Crane St. Here I installed a mechanism of the most curious aspect, constructed piecemeal

by different makers of scientific apparatus in Europe and America, and guarded carefully from

the sight of anyone intelligent enough to analyse it. Those who did see it—a workman, a

servant, and the new housekeeper—say that it was a queer mixture of rods, wheels, and

mirrors, though only about two feet tall, one foot wide, and one foot thick. The central mirror

was circular and convex. All this is borne out by such makers of parts as can be located.

On the evening of Friday, Sept. 26, I dismissed the housekeeper and the maid till noon of the

next day. Lights burned in the house till late, and a lean, dark, curiously foreign-looking man

called in an automobile. It was about 1 a.m. that the lights were last seen. At 2:15 a.m. a

policeman observed the place in darkness, but with the stranger‘s motor still at the curb. By

four o‘clock the motor was certainly gone. It was at six that a hesitant, foreign voice on the

telephone asked Dr. Wilson to call at my house and bring me out of a peculiar faint. This

call—a long-distance one—was later traced to a public booth in the North Station in Boston,

but no sign of the lean foreigner was ever unearthed.

When the doctor reached my house he found me unconscious in the sitting-room—in an

easy-chair with a table drawn up before it. On the polished table-top were scratches shewing

where some heavy object had rested. The queer machine was gone, nor was anything

afterward heard of it. Undoubtedly the dark, lean foreigner had taken it away. In the library

grate were abundant ashes evidently left from the burning of every remaining scrap of paper

on which I had written since the advent of the amnesia. Dr. Wilson found my breathing very

peculiar, but after an hypodermic injection it became more regular.

At 11:15 a.m., Sept. 27, I stirred vigorously, and my hitherto mask-like face began to shew

signs of expression. Dr. Wilson remarked that the expression was not that of my secondary

personality, but seemed much like that of my normal self. About 11:30 I muttered some very

curious syllables—syllables which seemed unrelated to any human speech. I appeared, too,

to struggle against something. Then, just after noon—the housekeeper and the maid having

meanwhile returned—I began to mutter in English.

―. . . of the orthodox economists of that period, Jevons typifies the prevailing trend toward

scientific correlation. His attempt to link the commercial cycle of prosperity and depression

with the physical cycle of the solar spots forms perhaps the apex of . . .‖

Nathaniel Wingate Peaslee had come back—a spirit in whose time-scale it was still that

Thursday morning in 1908, with the economics class gazing up at the battered desk on the

platform.

II.

My reabsorption into normal life was a painful and difficult process. The loss of over five years

creates more complications than can be imagined, and in my case there were countless

matters to be adjusted. What I heard of my actions since 1908 astonished and disturbed me,

but I tried to view the matter as philosophically as I could. At last regaining custody of my

second son Wingate, I settled down with him in the Crane Street house and endeavoured to

resume teaching—my old professorship having been kindly offered me by the college.

I began work with the February, 1914, term, and kept at it just a year. By that time I realised

how badly my experience had shaken me. Though perfectly sane—I hoped—and with no flaw

in my original personality, I had not the nervous energy of the old days. Vague dreams and

queer ideas continually haunted me, and when the outbreak of the world war turned my mind

to history I found myself thinking of periods and events in the oddest possible fashion. My

conception of time—my ability to distinguish between consecutiveness and

simultaneousness—seemed subtly disordered; so that I formed chimerical notions about

living in one age and casting one‘s mind all over eternity for knowledge of past and future

ages.

The war gave me strange impressions of remembering some of its far-off consequences—as

if I knew how it was coming out and could look back upon it in the light of future information.

All such quasi-memories were attended with much pain, and with a feeling that some artificial

psychological barrier was set against them. When I diffidently hinted to others about my

impressions I met with varied responses. Some persons looked uncomfortably at me, but men

in the mathematics department spoke of new developments in those theories of relativity—

then discussed only in learned circles—which were later to become so famous. Dr. Albert

Einstein, they said, was rapidly reducing time to the status of a mere dimension.

But the dreams and disturbed feelings gained on me, so that I had to drop my regular work in

1915. Certain of the impressions were taking an annoying shape—giving me the persistent

notion that my amnesia had formed some unholy sort of exchange; that the secondary

personality had indeed been an intruding force from unknown regions, and that my own

personality had suffered displacement. Thus I was driven to vague and frightful speculations

concerning the whereabouts of my true self during the years that another had held my body.

The curious knowledge and strange conduct of my body‘s late tenant troubled me more and

more as I learned further details from persons, papers, and magazines. Queernesses that had

baffled others seemed to harmonise terribly with some background of black knowledge which

festered in the chasms of my subconscious. I began to search feverishly for every scrap of

information bearing on the studies and travels of that other one during the dark years.

Not all of my troubles were as semi-abstract as this. There were the dreams—and these

seemed to grow in vividness and concreteness. Knowing how most would regard them, I

seldom mentioned them to anyone but my son or certain trusted psychologists, but eventually

I commenced a scientific study of other cases in order to see how typical or non-typical such

visions might be among amnesia victims. My results, aided by psychologists, historians,

anthropologists, and mental specialists of wide experience, and by a study that included all

records of split personalities from the days of daemoniac-possession legends to the medically

realistic present, at first bothered me more than they consoled me.

I soon found that my dreams had indeed no counterpart in the overwhelming bulk of true

amnesia cases. There remained, however, a tiny residue of accounts which for years baffled

and shocked me with their parallelism to my own experience. Some of them were bits of

ancient folklore; others were case-histories in the annals of medicine; one or two were

anecdotes obscurely buried in standard histories. It thus appeared that, while my special kind

of affliction was prodigiously rare, instances of it had occurred at long intervals ever since the

beginning of man‘s annals. Some centuries might contain one, two, or three cases; others

none—or at least none whose record survived.

The essence was always the same—a person of keen thoughtfulness seized with a strange

secondary life and leading for a greater or lesser period an utterly alien existence typified at

first by vocal and bodily awkwardness, and later by a wholesale acquisition of scientific,

historic, artistic, and anthropological knowledge; an acquisition carried on with feverish zest

and with a wholly abnormal absorptive power. Then a sudden return of the rightful

consciousness, intermittently plagued ever after with vague unplaceable dreams suggesting

fragments of some hideous memory elaborately blotted out. And the close resemblance of

those nightmares to my own—even in some of the smallest particulars—left no doubt in my

mind of their significantly typical nature. One or two of the cases had an added ring of faint,

blasphemous familiarity, as if I had heard of them before through some cosmic channel too

morbid and frightful to contemplate. In three instances there was specific mention of such an

unknown machine as had been in my house before the second change.

Another thing that cloudily worried me during my investigation was the somewhat greater

frequency of cases where a brief, elusive glimpse of the typical nightmares was afforded to

persons not visited with well-defined amnesia. These persons were largely of mediocre mind

or less—some so primitive that they could scarcely be thought of as vehicles for abnormal

scholarship and preternatural mental acquisitions. For a second they would be fired with alien

force—then a backward lapse and a thin, swift-fading memory of un-human horrors.

There had been at least three such cases during the past half century—one only fifteen years

before. Had something been groping blindly through time from some unsuspected abyss in

Nature? Were these faint cases monstrous, sinister experiments of a kind and authorship

utterly beyond sane belief? Such were a few of the formless speculations of my weaker

hours—fancies abetted by myths which my studies uncovered. For I could not doubt but that

certain persistent legends of immemorial antiquity, apparently unknown to the victims and

physicians connected with recent amnesia cases, formed a striking and awesome elaboration

of memory lapses such as mine.

Of the nature of the dreams and impressions which were growing so clamorous I still almost

fear to speak. They seemed to savour of madness, and at times I believed I was indeed going

mad. Was there a special type of delusion afflicting those who had suffered lapses of

memory? Conceivably, the efforts of the subconscious mind to fill up a perplexing blank with

pseudo-memories might give rise to strange imaginative vagaries. This, indeed (though an

alternative folklore theory finally seemed to me more plausible), was the belief of many of the

alienists who helped me in my search for parallel cases, and who shared my puzzlement at

the exact resemblances sometimes discovered. They did not call the condition true insanity,

but classed it rather among neurotic disorders. My course in trying to track it down and

analyse it, instead of vainly seeking to dismiss or forget it, they heartily endorsed as correct

according to the best psychological principles. I especially valued the advice of such

physicians as had studied me during my possession by the other personality.

My first disturbances were not visual at all, but concerned the more abstract matters which I

have mentioned. There was, too, a feeling of profound and inexplicable horror concerning

myself. I developed a queer fear of seeing my own form, as if my eyes would find it something

utterly alien and inconceivably abhorrent. When I did glance down and behold the familiar

human shape in quiet grey or blue clothing I always felt a curious relief, though in order to

gain this relief I had to conquer an infinite dread. I shunned mirrors as much as possible, and

was always shaved at the barber‘s.

It was a long time before I correlated any of these disappointed feelings with the fleeting

visual impressions which began to develop. The first such correlation had to do with the odd

sensation of an external, artificial restraint on my memory. I felt that the snatches of sight I

experienced had a profound and terrible meaning, and a frightful connexion with myself, but

that some purposeful influence held me from grasping that meaning and that connexion. Then

came that queerness about the element of time, and with it desperate efforts to place the

fragmentary dream-glimpses in the chronological and spatial pattern.

The glimpses themselves were at first merely strange rather than horrible. I would seem to be

in an enormous vaulted chamber whose lofty stone groinings were well-nigh lost in the

shadows overhead. In whatever time or place the scene might be, the principle of the arch

was known as fully and used as extensively as by the Romans. There were colossal round

windows and high arched doors, and pedestals or tables each as tall as the height of an

ordinary room. Vast shelves of dark wood lined the walls, holding what seemed to be volumes

of immense size with strange hieroglyphs on their backs. The exposed stonework held

curious carvings, always in curvilinear mathematical designs, and there were chiselled

inscriptions in the same characters that the huge books bore. The dark granite masonry was

of a monstrous megalithic type, with lines of convex-topped blocks fitting the concave-

bottomed courses which rested upon them. There were no chairs, but the tops of the vast

pedestals were littered with books, papers, and what seemed to be writing materials—oddly

figured jars of a purplish metal, and rods with stained tips. Tall as the pedestals were, I

seemed at times able to view them from above. On some of them were great globes of

luminous crystal serving as lamps, and inexplicable machines formed of vitreous tubes and

metal rods. The windows were glazed, and latticed with stout-looking bars. Though I dared

not approach and peer out them, I could see from where I was the waving tops of singular

fern-like growths. The floor was of massive octagonal flagstones, while rugs and hangings

were entirely lacking.

Later I had visions of sweeping through Cyclopean corridors of stone, and up and down

gigantic inclined planes of the same monstrous masonry. There were no stairs anywhere, nor

was any passageway less than thirty feet wide. Some of the structures through which I floated

must have towered into the sky for thousands of feet. There were multiple levels of black

vaults below, and never-opened trap-doors, sealed down with metal bands and holding dim

suggestions of some special peril. I seemed to be a prisoner, and horror hung broodingly over

everything I saw. I felt that the mocking curvilinear hieroglyphs on the walls would blast my

soul with their message were I not guarded by a merciful ignorance.

Still later my dreams included vistas from the great round windows, and from the titanic flat

roof, with its curious gardens, wide barren area, and high, scalloped parapet of stone, to

which the topmost of the inclined planes led. There were almost endless leagues of giant

buildings, each in its garden, and ranged along paved roads fully two hundred feet wide. They

differed greatly in aspect, but few were less than five hundred feet square or a thousand feet

high. Many seemed so limitless that they must have had a frontage of several thousand feet,

while some shot up to mountainous altitudes in the grey, steamy heavens. They seemed to be

mainly of stone or concrete, and most of them embodied the oddly curvilinear type of masonry

noticeable in the building that held me. Roofs were flat and garden-covered, and tended to

have scalloped parapets. Sometimes there were terraces and higher levels, and wide cleared

spaces amidst the gardens. The great roads held hints of motion, but in the earlier visions I

could not resolve this impression into details.

In certain places I beheld enormous dark cylindrical towers which climbed far above any of

the other structures. These appeared to be of a totally unique nature, and shewed signs of

prodigious age and dilapidation. They were built of a bizarre type of square-cut basalt

masonry, and tapered slightly toward their rounded tops. Nowhere in any of them could the

least traces of windows or other apertures save huge doors be found. I noticed also some

lower buildings—all crumbling with the weathering of aeons—which resembled these dark

cylindrical towers in basic architecture. Around all these aberrant piles of square-cut masonry

there hovered an inexplicable aura of menace and concentrated fear, like that bred by the

sealed trap-doors.

The omnipresent gardens were almost terrifying in their strangeness, with bizarre and

unfamiliar forms of vegetation nodding over broad paths lined with curiously carven monoliths.

Abnormally vast fern-like growths predominated; some green, and some of a ghastly, fungoid

pallor. Among them rose great spectral things resembling calamites, whose bamboo-like

trunks towered to fabulous heights. Then there were tufted forms like fabulous cycads, and

grotesque dark-green shrubs and trees of coniferous aspect. Flowers were small, colourless,

and unrecognisable, blooming in geometrical beds and at large among the greenery. In a few

of the terrace and roof-top gardens were larger and more vivid blossoms of almost offensive

contours and seeming to suggest artificial breeding. Fungi of inconceivable size, outlines, and

colours speckled the scene in patterns bespeaking some unknown but well-established

horticultural tradition. In the larger gardens on the ground there seemed to be some attempt

to preserve the irregularities of Nature, but on the roofs there was more selectiveness, and

more evidences of the topiary art.

The skies were almost always moist and cloudy, and sometimes I would seem to witness

tremendous rains. Once in a while, though, there would be glimpses of the sun—which looked

abnormally large—and of the moon, whose markings held a touch of difference from the

normal that I could never quite fathom. When—very rarely—the night sky was clear to any

extent, I beheld constellations which were nearly beyond recognition. Known outlines were

sometimes approximated, but seldom duplicated; and from the position of the few groups I

could recognise, I felt I must be in the earth‘s southern hemisphere, near the Tropic of

Capricorn. The far horizon was always steamy and indistinct, but I could see that great

jungles of unknown tree-ferns, calamites, lepidodendra, and sigillaria lay outside the city, their

fantastic frondage waving mockingly in the shifting vapours. Now and then there would be

suggestions of motion in the sky, but these my early visions never resolved.

By the autumn of 1914 I began to have infrequent dreams of strange floatings over the city

and through the regions around it. I saw interminable roads through forests of fearsome

growths with mottled, fluted, and banded trunks, and past other cities as strange as the one

which persistently haunted me. I saw monstrous constructions of black or iridescent stone in

glades and clearings where perpetual twilight reigned, and traversed long causeways over

swamps so dark that I could tell but little of their moist, towering vegetation. Once I saw an

area of countless miles strown with age-blasted basaltic ruins whose architecture had been

like that of the few windowless, round-topped towers in the haunting city. And once I saw the

sea—a boundless steamy expanse beyond the colossal stone piers of an enormous town of

domes and arches. Great shapeless suggestions of shadow moved over it, and here and

there its surface was vexed with anomalous spoutings.

III.

As I have said, it was not immediately that these wild visions began to hold their terrifying

quality. Certainly, many persons have dreamed intrinsically stranger things—things

compounded of unrelated scraps of daily life, pictures, and reading, and arranged in

fantastically novel forms by the unchecked caprices of sleep. For some time I accepted the

visions as natural, even though I had never before been an extravagant dreamer. Many of the

vague anomalies, I argued, must have come from trivial sources too numerous to track down;

while others seemed to reflect a common text-book knowledge of the plants and other

conditions of the primitive world of a hundred and fifty million years ago—the world of the

Permian or Triassic age. In the course of some months, however, the element of terror did

figure with accumulating force. This was when the dreams began so unfailingly to have the

aspect of memories, and when my mind began to link them with my growing abstract

disturbances—the feeling of mnemonic restraint, the curious impressions regarding time, the

sense of a loathsome exchange with my secondary personality of 1908–13, and, considerably

later, the inexplicable loathing of my own person.

As certain definite details began to enter the dreams, their horror increased a thousandfold—

until by October, 1915, I felt I must do something. It was then that I began an intensive study

of other cases of amnesia and visions, feeling that I might thereby objectivise my trouble and

shake clear of its emotional grip. However, as before mentioned, the result was at first almost

exactly opposite. It disturbed me vastly to find that my dreams had been so closely

duplicated; especially since some of the accounts were too early to admit of any geological

knowledge—and therefore of any idea of primitive landscapes—on the subjects‘ part. What is

more, many of these accounts supplied very horrible details and explanations in connexion

with the visions of great buildings and jungle gardens—and other things. The actual sights

and vague impressions were bad enough, but what was hinted or asserted by some of the

other dreamers savoured of madness and blasphemy. Worst of all, my own pseudo-memory

was aroused to wilder dreams and hints of coming revelations. And yet most doctors deemed

my course, on the whole, an advisable one.

I studied psychology systematically, and under the prevailing stimulus my son Wingate did the

same—his studies leading eventually to his present professorship. In 1917 and 1918 I took

special courses at Miskatonic. Meanwhile my examination of medical, historical, and

anthropological records became indefatigable; involving travels to distant libraries, and finally

including even a reading of the hideous books of forbidden elder lore in which my secondary

personality had been so disturbingly interested. Some of the latter were the actual copies I

had consulted in my altered state, and I was greatly disturbed by certain marginal notations

and ostensible corrections of the hideous text in a script and idiom which somehow seemed

oddly un-human.

These markings were mostly in the respective languages of the various books, all of which

the writer seemed to know with equal though obviously academic facility. One note appended

to von Junzt‘s Unaussprechlichen Kulten, however, was alarmingly otherwise. It consisted of

certain curvilinear hieroglyphs in the same ink as that of the German corrections, but following

no recognised human pattern. And these hieroglyphs were closely and unmistakably akin to

the characters constantly met with in my dreams—characters whose meaning I would

sometimes momentarily fancy I knew or was just on the brink of recalling. To complete my

black confusion, my librarians assured me that, in view of previous examinations and records

of consultation of the volumes in question, all of these notations must have been made by

myself in my secondary state. This despite the fact that I was and still am ignorant of three of

the languages involved.

Piecing together the scattered records, ancient and modern, anthropological and medical, I

found a fairly consistent mixture of myth and hallucination whose scope and wildness left me

utterly dazed. Only one thing consoled me—the fact that the myths were of such early

existence. What lost knowledge could have brought pictures of the Palaeozoic or Mesozoic

landscape into these primitive fables, I could not even guess, but the pictures had been there.

Thus, a basis existed for the formation of a fixed type of delusion. Cases of amnesia no doubt

created the general myth-pattern—but afterward the fanciful accretions of the myths must

have reacted on amnesia sufferers and coloured their pseudo-memories. I myself had read

and heard all the early tales during my memory lapse—my quest had amply proved that. Was

it not natural, then, for my subsequent dreams and emotional impressions to become

coloured and moulded by what my memory subtly held over from my secondary state? A few

of the myths had significant connexions with other cloudy legends of the pre-human world,

especially those Hindoo tales involving stupefying gulfs of time and forming part of the lore of

modern theosophists.

Primal myth and modern delusion joined in their assumption that mankind is only one—

perhaps the least—of the highly evolved and dominant races of this planet‘s long and largely

unknown career. Things of inconceivable shape, they implied, had reared towers to the sky

and delved into every secret of Nature before the first amphibian forbear of man had crawled

out of the hot sea three hundred million years ago. Some had come down from the stars; a

few were as old as the cosmos itself; others had arisen swiftly from terrene germs as far

behind the first germs of our life-cycle as those germs are behind ourselves. Spans of

thousands of millions of years, and linkages with other galaxies and universes, were freely

spoken of. Indeed, there was no such thing as time in its humanly accepted sense.

But most of the tales and impressions concerned a relatively late race, of a queer and

intricate shape resembling no life-form known to science, which had lived till only fifty million

years before the advent of man. This, they indicated, was the greatest race of all; because it

alone had conquered the secret of time. It had learned all things that ever were known or ever

would be known on the earth, through the power of its keener minds to project themselves

into the past and future, even through gulfs of millions of years, and study the lore of every

age. From the accomplishments of this race arose all legends of prophets, including those in

human mythology.

In its vast libraries were volumes of texts and pictures holding the whole of earth‘s annals—

histories and descriptions of every species that had ever been or that ever would be, with full

records of their arts, their achievements, their languages, and their psychologies. With this

aeon-embracing knowledge, the Great Race chose from every era and life-form such

thoughts, arts, and processes as might suit its own nature and situation. Knowledge of the

past, secured through a kind of mind-casting outside the recognised senses, was harder to

glean than knowledge of the future.

In the latter case the course was easier and more material. With suitable mechanical aid a

mind would project itself forward in time, feeling its dim, extra-sensory way till it approached

the desired period. Then, after preliminary trials, it would seize on the best discoverable

representative of the highest of that period‘s life-forms; entering the organism‘s brain and

setting up therein its own vibrations while the displaced mind would strike back to the period

of the displacer, remaining in the latter‘s body till a reverse process was set up. The projected

mind, in the body of the organism of the future, would then pose as a member of the race

whose outward form it wore; learning as quickly as possible all that could be learned of the

chosen age and its massed information and techniques.

Meanwhile the displaced mind, thrown back to the displacer‘s age and body, would be

carefully guarded. It would be kept from harming the body it occupied, and would be drained

of all its knowledge by trained questioners. Often it could be questioned in its own language,

when previous quests into the future had brought back records of that language. If the mind

came from a body whose language the Great Race could not physically reproduce, clever

machines would be made, on which the alien speech could be played as on a musical

instrument. The Great Race‘s members were immense rugose cones ten feet high, and with

head and other organs attached to foot-thick, distensible limbs spreading from the apexes.

They spoke by the clicking or scraping of huge paws or claws attached to the end of two of

their four limbs, and walked by the expansion and contraction of a viscous layer attached to

their vast ten-foot bases.

When the captive mind‘s amazement and resentment had worn off, and when (assuming that

it came from a body vastly different from the Great Race‘s) it had lost its horror at its

unfamiliar temporary form, it was permitted to study its new environment and experience a

wonder and wisdom approximating that of its displacer. With suitable precautions, and in

exchange for suitable services, it was allowed to rove all over the habitable world in titan

airships or on the huge boat-like atomic-engined vehicles which traversed the great roads,

and to delve freely into the libraries containing the records of the planet‘s past and future. This

reconciled many captive minds to their lot; since none were other than keen, and to such

minds the unveiling of hidden mysteries of earth—closed chapters of inconceivable pasts and

dizzying vortices of future time which include the years ahead of their own natural ages—

forms always, despite the abysmal horrors often unveiled, the supreme experience of life.

Now and then certain captives were permitted to meet other captive minds seized from the

future—to exchange thoughts with consciousnesses living a hundred or a thousand or a

million years before or after their own ages. And all were urged to write copiously in their own

languages of themselves and their respective periods; such documents to be filed in the great

central archives.

It may be added that there was one sad special type of captive whose privileges were far

greater than those of the majority. These were the dying permanent exiles, whose bodies in

the future had been seized by keen-minded members of the Great Race who, faced with

death, sought to escape mental extinction. Such melancholy exiles were not as common as

might be expected, since the longevity of the Great Race lessened its love of life—especially

among those superior minds capable of projection. From cases of the permanent projection of

elder minds arose many of those lasting changes of personality noticed in later history—

including mankind‘s.

As for the ordinary cases of exploration—when the displacing mind had learned what it

wished in the future, it would build an apparatus like that which had started its flight and

reverse the process of projection. Once more it would be in its own body in its own age, while

the lately captive mind would return to that body of the future to which it properly belonged.

Only when one or the other of the bodies had died during the exchange was this restoration

impossible. In such cases, of course, the exploring mind had—like those of the death-

escapers—to live out an alien-bodied life in the future; or else the captive mind—like the dying

permanent exiles—had to end its days in the form and past age of the Great Race.

This fate was least horrible when the captive mind was also of the Great Race—a not

infrequent occurrence, since in all its periods that race was intensely concerned with its own

future. The number of dying permanent exiles of the Great Race was very slight—largely

because of the tremendous penalties attached to displacements of future Great Race minds

by the moribund. Through projection, arrangements were made to inflict these penalties on

the offending minds in their new future bodies—and sometimes forced re-exchanges were

effected. Complex cases of the displacement of exploring or already captive minds by minds

in various regions of the past had been known and carefully rectified. In every age since the

discovery of mind-projection, a minute but well-recognised element of the population

consisted of Great Race minds from past ages, sojourning for a longer or shorter while.

When a captive mind of alien origin was returned to its own body in the future, it was purged

by an intricate mechanical hypnosis of all it had learned in the Great Race‘s age—this

because of certain troublesome consequences inherent in the general carrying forward of

knowledge in large quantities. The few existing instances of clear transmission had caused,

and would cause at known future times, great disasters. And it was largely in consequence of

two cases of the kind (said the old myths) that mankind had learned what it had concerning

the Great Race. Of all things surviving physically and directly from that aeon-distant world,

there remained only certain ruins of great stones in far places and under the sea, and parts of

the text of the frightful Pnakotic Manuscripts.

Thus the returning mind reached its own age with only the faintest and most fragmentary

visions of what it had undergone since its seizure. All memories that could be eradicated were

eradicated, so that in most cases only a dream-shadowed blank stretched back to the time of

the first exchange. Some minds recalled more than others, and the chance joining of

memories had at rare times brought hints of the forbidden past to future ages. There probably

never was a time when groups or cults did not secretly cherish certain of these hints. In the

Necronomicon the presence of such a cult among human beings was suggested—a cult that

sometimes gave aid to minds voyaging down the aeons from the days of the Great Race.

And meanwhile the Great Race itself waxed well-nigh omniscient, and turned to the task of

setting up exchanges with the minds of other planets, and of exploring their pasts and futures.

It sought likewise to fathom the past years and origin of that black, aeon-dead orb in far space

whence its own mental heritage had come—for the mind of the Great Race was older than its

bodily form. The beings of a dying elder world, wise with the ultimate secrets, had looked

ahead for a new world and species wherein they might have long life; and had sent their

minds en masse into that future race best adapted to house them—the cone-shaped things

that peopled our earth a billion years ago. Thus the Great Race came to be, while the myriad

minds sent backward were left to die in the horror of strange shapes. Later the race would

again face death, yet would live through another forward migration of its best minds into the

bodies of others who had a longer physical span ahead of them.

Such was the background of intertwined legend and hallucination. When, around 1920, I had

my researches in coherent shape, I felt a slight lessening of the tension which their earlier

stages had increased. After all, and in spite of the fancies prompted by blind emotions, were

not most of my phenomena readily explainable? Any chance might have turned my mind to

dark studies during the amnesia—and then I read the forbidden legends and met the

members of ancient and ill-regarded cults. That, plainly, supplied the material for the dreams

and disturbed feelings which came after the return of memory. As for the marginal notes in

dream-hieroglyphs and languages unknown to me, but laid at my door by librarians—I might

easily have picked up a smattering of the tongues during my secondary state, while the

hieroglyphs were doubtless coined by my fancy from descriptions in old legends, and

afterward woven into my dreams. I tried to verify certain points through conversation with

known cult-leaders, but never succeeded in establishing the right connexions.

At times the parallelism of so many cases in so many distant ages continued to worry me as it

had at first, but on the other hand I reflected that the excitant folklore was undoubtedly more

universal in the past than in the present. Probably all the other victims whose cases were like

mine had had a long and familiar knowledge of the tales I had learned only when in my

secondary state. When these victims had lost their memory, they had associated themselves

with the creatures of their household myths—the fabulous invaders supposed to displace

men‘s minds—and had thus embarked upon quests for knowledge which they thought they

could take back to a fancied, non-human past. Then when their memory returned, they

reversed the associative process and thought of themselves as the former captive minds

instead of as the displacers. Hence the dreams and pseudo-memories following the

conventional myth-pattern.

Despite the seeming cumbrousness of these explanations, they came finally to supersede all

others in my mind—largely because of the greater weakness of any rival theory. And a

substantial number of eminent psychologists and anthropologists gradually agreed with me.

The more I reflected, the more convincing did my reasoning seem; till in the end I had a really

effective bulwark against the visions and impressions which still assailed me. Suppose I did

see strange things at night? These were only what I had heard and read of. Suppose I did

have odd loathings and perspectives and pseudo-memories? These, too, were only echoes of

myths absorbed in my secondary state. Nothing that I might dream, nothing that I might feel,

could be of any actual significance.

Fortified by this philosophy, I greatly improved in nervous equilibrium, even though the visions

(rather than the abstract impressions) steadily became more frequent and more disturbingly

detailed. In 1922 I felt able to undertake regular work again, and put my newly gained

knowledge to practical use by accepting an instructorship in psychology at the university. My

old chair of political economy had long been adequately filled—besides which, methods of

teaching economics had changed greatly since my heyday. My son was at this time just

entering on the post-graduate studies leading to his present professorship, and we worked

together a great deal.

IV.

I continued, however, to keep a careful record of the outré dreams which crowded upon me

so thickly and vividly. Such a record, I argued, was of genuine value as a psychological

document. The glimpses still seemed damnably like memories, though I fought off this

impression with a goodly measure of success. In writing, I treated the phantasmata as things

seen; but at all other times I brushed them aside like any gossamer illusions of the night. I had

never mentioned such matters in common conversation; though reports of them, filtering out

as such things will, had aroused sundry rumours regarding my mental health. It is amusing to

reflect that these rumours were confined wholly to laymen, without a single champion among

physicians or psychologists.

Of my visions after 1914 I will here mention only a few, since fuller accounts and records are

at the disposal of the serious student. It is evident that with time the curious inhibitions

somewhat waned, for the scope of my visions vastly increased. They have never, though,

become other than disjointed fragments seemingly without clear motivation. Within the

dreams I seemed gradually to acquire a greater and greater freedom of wandering. I floated

through many strange buildings of stone, going from one to the other along mammoth

underground passages which seemed to form the common avenues of transit. Sometimes I

encountered those gigantic sealed trap-doors in the lowest level, around which such an aura

of fear and forbiddenness clung. I saw tremendous tessellated pools, and rooms of curious

and inexplicable utensils of myriad sorts. Then there were colossal caverns of intricate

machinery whose outlines and purpose were wholly strange to me, and whose sound

manifested itself only after many years of dreaming. I may here remark that sight and sound

are the only senses I have ever exercised in the visionary world.

The real horror began in May, 1915, when I first saw the living things. This was before my

studies had taught me what, in view of the myths and case histories, to expect. As mental

barriers wore down, I beheld great masses of thin vapour in various parts of the building and

in the streets below. These steadily grew more solid and distinct, till at last I could trace their

monstrous outlines with uncomfortable ease. They seemed to be enormous iridescent cones,

about ten feet high and ten feet wide at the base, and made up of some ridgy, scaly, semi-

elastic matter. From their apexes projected four flexible, cylindrical members, each a foot

thick, and of a ridgy substance like that of the cones themselves. These members were

sometimes contracted almost to nothing, and sometimes extended to any distance up to

about ten feet. Terminating two of them were enormous claws or nippers. At the end of a third

were four red, trumpet-like appendages. The fourth terminated in an irregular yellowish globe

some two feet in diameter and having three great dark eyes ranged along its central

circumference. Surmounting this head were four slender grey stalks bearing flower-like

appendages, whilst from its nether side dangled eight greenish antennae or tentacles. The

great base of the central cone was fringed with a rubbery, grey substance which moved the

whole entity through expansion and contraction.

Their actions, though harmless, horrified me even more than their appearance—for it is not

wholesome to watch monstrous objects doing what one has known only human beings to do.

These objects moved intelligently around the great rooms, getting books from the shelves and

taking them to the great tables, or vice versa, and sometimes writing diligently with a peculiar

rod gripped in the greenish head-tentacles. The huge nippers were used in carrying books

and in conversation—speech consisting of a kind of clicking and scraping. The objects had no

clothing, but wore satchels or knapsacks suspended from the top of the conical trunk. They

commonly carried their head and its supporting member at the level of the cone top, although

it was frequently raised or lowered. The other three great members tended to rest downward

on the sides of the cone, contracted to about five feet each, when not in use. From their rate

of reading, writing, and operating their machines (those on the tables seemed somehow

connected with thought) I concluded that their intelligence was enormously greater than

man‘s.

Afterward I saw them everywhere; swarming in all the great chambers and corridors, tending

monstrous machines in vaulted crypts, and racing along the vast roads in gigantic boat-

shaped cars. I ceased to be afraid of them, for they seemed to form supremely natural parts

of their environment. Individual differences amongst them began to be manifest, and a few

appeared to be under some kind of restraint. These latter, though shewing no physical

variation, had a diversity of gestures and habits which marked them off not only from the

majority, but very largely from one another. They wrote a great deal in what seemed to my

cloudy vision a vast variety of characters—never the typical curvilinear hieroglyphs of the

majority. A few, I fancied, used our own familiar alphabet. Most of them worked much more

slowly than the general mass of the entities.

All this time my own part in the dreams seemed to be that of a disembodied consciousness

with a range of vision wider than the normal; floating freely about, yet confined to the ordinary

avenues and speeds of travel. Not until August, 1915, did any suggestions of bodily existence

begin to harass me. I say harass, because the first phase was a purely abstract though

infinitely terrible association of my previously noted body-loathing with the scenes of my

visions. For a while my chief concern during dreams was to avoid looking down at myself, and

I recall how grateful I was for the total absence of large mirrors in the strange rooms. I was

mightily troubled by the fact that I always saw the great tables—whose height could not be

under ten feet—from a level not below that of their surfaces.

And then the morbid temptation to look down at myself became greater and greater, till one

night I could not resist it. At first my downward glance revealed nothing whatever. A moment

later I perceived that this was because my head lay at the end of a flexible neck of enormous

length. Retracting this neck and gazing down very sharply, I saw the scaly, rugose, iridescent

bulk of a vast cone ten feet tall and ten feet wide at the base. That was when I waked half of

Arkham with my screaming as I plunged madly up from the abyss of sleep.

Only after weeks of hideous repetition did I grow half-reconciled to these visions of myself in

monstrous form. In the dreams I now moved bodily among the other unknown entities,

reading terrible books from the endless shelves and writing for hours at the great tables with a

stylus managed by the green tentacles that hung down from my head. Snatches of what I

read and wrote would linger in my memory. There were horrible annals of other worlds and

other universes, and of stirrings of formless life outside of all universes. There were records of

strange orders of beings which had peopled the world in forgotten pasts, and frightful

chronicles of grotesque-bodied intelligences which would people it millions of years after the

death of the last human being. And I learned of chapters in human history whose existence no

scholar of today has ever suspected. Most of these writings were in the language of the

hieroglyphs; which I studied in a queer way with the aid of droning machines, and which was

evidently an agglutinative speech with root systems utterly unlike any found in human

languages. Other volumes were in other unknown tongues learned in the same queer way. A

very few were in languages I knew. Extremely clever pictures, both inserted in the records

and forming separate collections, aided me immensely. And all the time I seemed to be setting

down a history of my own age in English. On waking, I could recall only minute and

meaningless scraps of the unknown tongues which my dream-self had mastered, though

whole phrases of the history stayed with me.

I learned—even before my waking self had studied the parallel cases or the old myths from

which the dreams doubtless sprang—that the entities around me were of the world‘s greatest

race, which had conquered time and had sent exploring minds into every age. I knew, too,

that I had been snatched from my age while another used my body in that age, and that a few

of the other strange forms housed similarly captured minds. I seemed to talk, in some odd

language of claw-clickings, with exiled intellects from every corner of the solar system.

There was a mind from the planet we know as Venus, which would live incalculable epochs to

come, and one from an outer moon of Jupiter six million years in the past. Of earthly minds

there were some from the winged, star-headed, half-vegetable race of palaeogean Antarctica;

one from the reptile people of fabled Valusia; three from the furry pre-human Hyperborean

worshippers of Tsathoggua; one from the wholly abominable Tcho-Tchos; two from the

arachnid denizens of earth‘s last age; five from the hardy coleopterous species immediately

following mankind, to which the Great Race was some day to transfer its keenest minds en

masse in the face of horrible peril; and several from different branches of humanity.

I talked with the mind of Yiang-Li, a philosopher from the cruel empire of Tsan-Chan, which is

to come in A.D. 5000; with that of a general of the great-headed brown people who held

South Africa in B.C. 50,000; with that of a twelfth-century Florentine monk named Bartolomeo

Corsi; with that of a king of Lomar who had ruled that terrible polar land 100,000 years before

the squat, yellow Inutos came from the west to engulf it; with that of Nug-Soth, a magician of

the dark conquerors of A.D. 16,000; with that of a Roman named Titus Sempronius Blaesus,

who had been a quaestor in Sulla‘s time; with that of Khephnes, an Egyptian of the 14th

Dynasty who told me the hideous secret of Nyarlathotep; with that of a priest of Atlantis‘

middle kingdom; with that of a Suffolk gentleman of Cromwell‘s day, James Woodville; with

that of a court astronomer of pre-Inca Peru; with that of the Australian physicist Nevil

Kingston-Brown, who will die in A.D. 2518; with that of an archimage of vanished Yhe in the

Pacific; with that of Theodotides, a Graeco-Bactrian official of B.C. 200; with that of an aged

Frenchman of Louis XIII‘s time named Pierre-Louis Montmagny; with that of Crom-Ya, a

Cimmerian chieftain of B.C. 15,000; and with so many others that my brain cannot hold the

shocking secrets and dizzying marvels I learned from them.

I awaked each morning in a fever, sometimes frantically trying to verify or discredit such

information as fell within the range of modern human knowledge. Traditional facts took on

new and doubtful aspects, and I marvelled at the dream-fancy which could invent such

surprising addenda to history and science. I shivered at the mysteries the past may conceal,

and trembled at the menaces the future may bring forth. What was hinted in the speech of

post-human entities of the fate of mankind produced such an effect on me that I will not set it

down here. After man there would be the mighty beetle civilisation, the bodies of whose

members the cream of the Great Race would seize when the monstrous doom overtook the

elder world. Later, as the earth‘s span closed, the transferred minds would again migrate

through time and space—to another stopping-place in the bodies of the bulbous vegetable

entities of Mercury. But there would be races after them, clinging pathetically to the cold

planet and burrowing to its horror-filled core, before the utter end.

Meanwhile, in my dreams, I wrote endlessly in that history of my own age which I was

preparing—half voluntarily and half through promises of increased library and travel

opportunities—for the Great Race‘s central archives. The archives were in a colossal

subterranean structure near the city‘s centre, which I came to know well through frequent

labours and consultations. Meant to last as long as the race, and to withstand the fiercest of

earth‘s convulsions, this titan repository surpassed all other buildings in the massive,

mountain-like firmness of its construction.

The records, written or printed on great sheets of a curiously tenacious cellulose fabric, were

bound into books that opened from the top, and were kept in individual cases of a strange,

extremely light rustless metal of greyish hue, decorated with mathematical designs and

bearing the title in the Great Race‘s curvilinear hieroglyphs. These cases were stored in tiers

of rectangular vaults—like closed, locked shelves—wrought of the same rustless metal and

fastened by knobs with intricate turnings. My own history was assigned a specific place in the

vaults of the lowest or vertebrate level—the section devoted to the culture of mankind and of

the furry and reptilian races immediately preceding it in terrestrial dominance.

But none of the dreams ever gave me a full picture of daily life. All were the merest misty,

disconnected fragments, and it is certain that these fragments were not unfolded in their

rightful sequence. I have, for example, a very imperfect idea of my own living arrangements in

the dream-world; though I seem to have possessed a great stone room of my own. My

restrictions as a prisoner gradually disappeared, so that some of the visions included vivid

travels over the mighty jungle roads, sojourns in strange cities, and explorations of some of

the vast dark windowless ruins from which the Great Race shrank in curious fear. There were

also long sea-voyages in enormous, many-decked boats of incredible swiftness, and trips

over wild regions in closed, projectile-like airships lifted and moved by electrical repulsion.

Beyond the wide, warm ocean were other cities of the Great Race, and on one far continent I

saw the crude villages of the black-snouted, winged creatures who would evolve as a

dominant stock after the Great Race had sent its foremost minds into the future to escape the

creeping horror. Flatness and exuberant green life were always the keynote of the scene. Hills

were low and sparse, and usually displayed signs of volcanic forces.

Of the animals I saw, I could write volumes. All were wild; for the Great Race‘s mechanised

culture had long since done away with domestic beasts, while food was wholly vegetable or

synthetic. Clumsy reptiles of great bulk floundered in steaming morasses, fluttered in the

heavy air, or spouted in the seas and lakes; and among these I fancied I could vaguely

recognise lesser, archaic prototypes of many forms—dinosaurs, pterodactyls, ichthyosaurs,

labyrinthodonts, rhamphorhynci, plesiosaurs, and the like—made familiar through

palaeontology. Of birds or mammals there were none that I could discern.

The ground and swamps were constantly alive with snakes, lizards, and crocodiles, while

insects buzzed incessantly amidst the lush vegetation. And far out at sea unspied and

unknown monsters spouted mountainous columns of foam into the vaporous sky. Once I was

taken under the ocean in a gigantic submarine vessel with searchlights, and glimpsed some

living horrors of awesome magnitude. I saw also the ruins of incredible sunken cities, and the

wealth of crinoid, brachiopod, coral, and ichthyic life which everywhere abounded.

Of the physiology, psychology, folkways, and detailed history of the Great Race my visions

preserved but little information, and many of the scattered points I here set down were

gleaned from my study of old legends and other cases rather than from my own dreaming.

For in time, of course, my reading and research caught up with and passed the dreams in

many phases; so that certain dream-fragments were explained in advance, and formed

verifications of what I had learned. This consolingly established my belief that similar reading

and research, accomplished by my secondary self, had formed the source of the whole

terrible fabric of pseudo-memories.

The period of my dreams, apparently, was one somewhat less than 150,000,000 years ago,

when the Palaeozoic age was giving place to the Mesozoic. The bodies occupied by the

Great Race represented no surviving—or even scientifically known—line of terrestrial

evolution, but were of a peculiar, closely homogeneous, and highly specialised organic type

inclining as much to the vegetable as to the animal state. Cell-action was of an unique sort

almost precluding fatigue, and wholly eliminating the need of sleep. Nourishment, assimilated

through the red trumpet-like appendages on one of the great flexible limbs, was always semi-

fluid and in many aspects wholly unlike the food of existing animals. The beings had but two

of the senses which we recognise—sight and hearing, the latter accomplished through the

flower-like appendages on the grey stalks above their heads—but of other and

incomprehensible senses (not, however, well utilisable by alien captive minds inhabiting their

bodies) they possessed many. Their three eyes were so situated as to give them a range of

vision wider than the normal. Their blood was a sort of deep-greenish ichor of great thickness.

They had no sex, but reproduced through seeds or spores which clustered on their bases and

could be developed only under water. Great, shallow tanks were used for the growth of their

young—which were, however, reared only in small numbers on account of the longevity of

individuals; four or five thousand years being the common life span.

Markedly defective individuals were quietly disposed of as soon as their defects were noticed.

Disease and the approach of death were, in the absence of a sense of touch or of physical

pain, recognised by purely visual symptoms. The dead were incinerated with dignified

ceremonies. Once in a while, as before mentioned, a keen mind would escape death by

forward projection in time; but such cases were not numerous. When one did occur, the exiled

mind from the future was treated with the utmost kindness till the dissolution of its unfamiliar

tenement.

The Great Race seemed to form a single loosely knit nation or league, with major institutions

in common, though there were four definite divisions. The political and economic system of

each unit was a sort of fascistic socialism, with major resources rationally distributed, and

power delegated to a small governing board elected by the votes of all able to pass certain

educational and psychological tests. Family organisation was not overstressed, though ties

among persons of common descent were recognised, and the young were generally reared

by their parents.

Resemblances to human attitudes and institutions were, of course, most marked in those

fields where on the one hand highly abstract elements were concerned, or where on the other

hand there was a dominance of the basic, unspecialised urges common to all organic life. A

few added likenesses came through conscious adoption as the Great Race probed the future

and copied what it liked. Industry, highly mechanised, demanded but little time from each

citizen; and the abundant leisure was filled with intellectual and aesthetic activities of various

sorts. The sciences were carried to an unbelievable height of development, and art was a vital

part of life, though at the period of my dreams it had passed its crest and meridian.

Technology was enormously stimulated through the constant struggle to survive, and to keep

in existence the physical fabric of great cities, imposed by the prodigious geologic upheavals

of those primal days.

Crime was surprisingly scanty, and was dealt with through highly efficient policing.

Punishments ranged from privilege-deprivation and imprisonment to death or major emotion-

wrenching, and were never administered without a careful study of the criminal‘s motivations.

Warfare, largely civil for the last few millennia though sometimes waged against reptilian and

octopodic invaders, or against the winged, star-headed Old Ones who centred in the

Antarctic, was infrequent though infinitely devastating. An enormous army, using camera-like

weapons which produced tremendous electrical effects, was kept on hand for purposes

seldom mentioned, but obviously connected with the ceaseless fear of the dark, windowless

elder ruins and of the great sealed trap-doors in the lowest subterrene levels.

This fear of the basalt ruins and trap-doors was largely a matter of unspoken suggestion—or,

at most, of furtive quasi-whispers. Everything specific which bore on it was significantly

absent from such books as were on the common shelves. It was the one subject lying

altogether under a taboo among the Great Race, and seemed to be connected alike with

horrible bygone struggles, and with that future peril which would some day force the race to

send its keener minds ahead en masse in time. Imperfect and fragmentary as were the other

things presented by dreams and legends, this matter was still more bafflingly shrouded. The

vague old myths avoided it—or perhaps all allusions had for some reason been excised. And

in the dreams of myself and others, the hints were peculiarly few. Members of the Great Race

never intentionally referred to the matter, and what could be gleaned came only from some of

the more sharply observant captive minds.

According to these scraps of information, the basis of the fear was a horrible elder race of

half-polypous, utterly alien entities which had come through space from immeasurably distant

universes and had dominated the earth and three other solar planets about six hundred

million years ago. They were only partly material—as we understand matter—and their type of

consciousness and media of perception differed wholly from those of terrestrial organisms.

For example, their senses did not include that of sight; their mental world being a strange,

non-visual pattern of impressions. They were, however, sufficiently material to use

implements of normal matter when in cosmic areas containing it; and they required housing—

albeit of a peculiar kind. Though their senses could penetrate all material barriers, their

substance could not; and certain forms of electrical energy could wholly destroy them. They

had the power of aërial motion despite the absence of wings or any other visible means of

levitation. Their minds were of such texture that no exchange with them could be effected by

the Great Race.

When these things had come to the earth they had built mighty basalt cities of windowless

towers, and had preyed horribly upon the beings they found. Thus it was when the minds of

the Great Race sped across the void from that obscure trans-galactic world known in the

disturbing and debatable Eltdown Shards as Yith. The newcomers, with the instruments they

created, had found it easy to subdue the predatory entities and drive them down to those

caverns of inner earth which they had already joined to their abodes and begun to inhabit.

Then they had sealed the entrances and left them to their fate, afterward occupying most of

their great cities and preserving certain important buildings for reasons connected more with

superstition than with indifference, boldness, or scientific and historical zeal.

But as the aeons passed, there came vague, evil signs that the Elder Things were growing

strong and numerous in the inner world. There were sporadic irruptions of a particularly

hideous character in certain small and remote cities of the Great Race, and in some of the

deserted elder cities which the Great Race had not peopled—places where the paths to the

gulfs below had not been properly sealed or guarded. After that greater precautions were

taken, and many of the paths were closed for ever—though a few were left with sealed trap-

doors for strategic use in fighting the Elder Things if ever they broke forth in unexpected

places; fresh rifts caused by that selfsame geologic change which had choked some of the

paths and had slowly lessened the number of outer-world structures and ruins surviving from

the conquered entities.

The irruptions of the Elder Things must have been shocking beyond all description, since they

had permanently coloured the psychology of the Great Race. Such was the fixed mood of

horror that the very aspect of the creatures was left unmentioned—at no time was I able to

gain a clear hint of what they looked like. There were veiled suggestions of a monstrous

plasticity, and of temporary lapses of visibility, while other fragmentary whispers referred to

their control and military use of great winds. Singular whistling noises, and colossal footprints

made up of five circular toe-marks, seemed also to be associated with them.

It was evident that the coming doom so desperately feared by the Great Race—the doom that

was one day to send millions of keen minds across the chasm of time to strange bodies in the

safer future—had to do with a final successful irruption of the Elder Beings. Mental projections

down the ages had clearly foretold such a horror, and the Great Race had resolved that none

who could escape should face it. That the foray would be a matter of vengeance, rather than

an attempt to reoccupy the outer world, they knew from the planet‘s later history—for their

projections shewed the coming and going of subsequent races untroubled by the monstrous

entities. Perhaps these entities had come to prefer earth‘s inner abysses to the variable,

storm-ravaged surface, since light meant nothing to them. Perhaps, too, they were slowly

weakening with the aeons. Indeed, it was known that they would be quite dead in the time of

the post-human beetle race which the fleeing minds would tenant. Meanwhile the Great Race

maintained its cautious vigilance, with potent weapons ceaselessly ready despite the horrified

banishing of the subject from common speech and visible records. And always the shadow of

nameless fear hung about the sealed trap-doors and the dark, windowless elder towers.

That is the world of which my dreams brought me dim, scattered echoes every night. I cannot

hope to give any true idea of the horror and dread contained in such echoes, for it was upon a

wholly intangible quality—the sharp sense of pseudo-memory—that such feelings mainly

depended. As I have said, my studies gradually gave me a defence against these feelings, in

the form of rational psychological explanations; and this saving influence was augmented by

the subtle touch of accustomedness which comes with the passage of time. Yet in spite of

everything the vague, creeping terror would return momentarily now and then. It did not,

however, engulf me as it had before; and after 1922 I lived a very normal life of work and

recreation.

In the course of years I began to feel that my experience—together with the kindred cases

and the related folklore—ought to be definitely summarised and published for the benefit of

serious students; hence I prepared a series of articles briefly covering the whole ground and

illustrated with crude sketches of some of the shapes, scenes, decorative motifs, and

hieroglyphs remembered from the dreams. These appeared at various times during 1928 and

1929 in the Journal of the American Psychological Society, but did not attract much attention.

Meanwhile I continued to record my dreams with the minutest care, even though the growing

stack of reports attained troublesomely vast proportions.

On July 10, 1934, there was forwarded to me by the Psychological Society the letter which

opened the culminating and most horrible phase of the whole mad ordeal. It was postmarked

Pilbarra, Western Australia, and bore the signature of one whom I found, upon inquiry, to be a

mining engineer of considerable prominence. Enclosed were some very curious snapshots. I

will reproduce the text in its entirety, and no reader can fail to understand how tremendous an

effect it and the photographs had upon me.

I was, for a time, almost stunned and incredulous; for although I had often thought that some

basis of fact must underlie certain phases of the legends which had coloured my dreams, I

was none the less unprepared for anything like a tangible survival from a lost world remote

beyond all imagination. Most devastating of all were the photographs—for here, in cold,

incontrovertible realism, there stood out against a background of sand certain worn-down,

water-ridged, storm-weathered blocks of stone whose slightly convex tops and slightly

concave bottoms told their own story. And when I studied them with a magnifying glass I could

see all too plainly, amidst the batterings and pittings, the traces of those vast curvilinear

designs and occasional hieroglyphs whose significance had become so hideous to me. But

here is the letter, which speaks for itself:

49, Dampier Str.,

Pilbarra, W. Australia,

18 May, 1934.

Prof. N. W. Peaslee,

c/o Am. Psychological Society,

30, E. 41st Str.,

N. Y. City, U.S.A.

My dear Sir:—

A recent conversation with Dr. E. M. Boyle of Perth, and some papers with your

articles which he has just sent me, make it advisable for me to tell you about

certain things I have seen in the Great Sandy Desert east of our gold field here. It

would seem, in view of the peculiar legends about old cities with huge stonework

and strange designs and hieroglyphs which you describe, that I have come upon

something very important.

The blackfellows have always been full of talk about ―great stones with marks on

them‖, and seem to have a terrible fear of such things. They connect them in some

way with their common racial legends about Buddai, the gigantic old man who lies

asleep for ages underground with his head on his arm, and who will some day

awake and eat up the world. There are some very old and half-forgotten tales of

enormous underground huts of great stones, where passages lead down and

down, and where horrible things have happened. The blackfellows claim that once

some warriors, fleeing in battle, went down into one and never came back, but that

frightful winds began to blow from the place soon after they went down. However,

there usually isn‘t much in what these natives say.

But what I have to tell is more than this. Two years ago, when I was prospecting

about 500 miles east in the desert, I came on a lot of queer pieces of dressed

stone perhaps 3 × 2 × 2 feet in size, and weathered and pitted to the very limit. At

first I couldn‘t find any of the marks the blackfellows told about, but when I looked

close enough I could make out some deeply carved lines in spite of the weathering.

They were peculiar curves, just like what the blacks had tried to describe. I imagine

there must have been 30 or 40 blocks, some nearly buried in the sand, and all

within a circle perhaps a quarter of a mile‘s diameter.

When I saw some, I looked around closely for more, and made a careful reckoning

of the place with my instruments. I also took pictures of 10 or 12 of the most typical

blocks, and will enclose the prints for you to see. I turned my information and

pictures over to the government at Perth, but they have done nothing with them.

Then I met Dr. Boyle, who had read your articles in the Journal of the American

Psychological Society, and in time happened to mention the stones. He was

enormously interested, and became quite excited when I shewed him my

snapshots, saying that the stones and markings were just like those of the masonry

you had dreamed about and seen described in legends. He meant to write you, but

was delayed. Meanwhile he sent me most of the magazines with your articles, and

I saw at once from your drawings and descriptions that my stones are certainly the

kind you mean. You can appreciate this from the enclosed prints. Later on you will

hear directly from Dr. Boyle.

Now I can understand how important all this will be to you. Without question we are

faced with the remains of an unknown civilisation older than any dreamed of

before, and forming a basis for your legends. As a mining engineer, I have some

knowledge of geology, and can tell you that these blocks are so ancient they

frighten me. They are mostly sandstone and granite, though one is almost certainly

made of a queer sort of cement or concrete. They bear evidence of water action,

as if this part of the world had been submerged and come up again after long

ages—all since these blocks were made and used. It is a matter of hundreds of

thousands of years—or heaven knows how much more. I don‘t like to think about it.

In view of your previous diligent work in tracking down the legends and everything

connected with them, I cannot doubt but that you will want to lead an expedition to

the desert and make some archaeological excavations. Both Dr. Boyle and I are

prepared to coöperate in such work if you—or organisations known to you—can

furnish the funds. I can get together a dozen miners for the heavy digging—the

blacks would be of no use, for I‘ve found that they have an almost maniacal fear of

this particular spot. Boyle and I are saying nothing to others, for you very obviously

ought to have precedence in any discoveries or credit.

The place can be reached from Pilbarra in about 4 days by motor tractor—which

we‘d need for our apparatus. It is somewhat west and south of Warburton‘s path of

1873, and 100 miles southeast of Joanna Spring. We could float things up the De

Grey River instead of starting from Pilbarra—but all that can be talked over later.

Roughly, the stones lie at a point about 22° 3' 14" South Latitude, 125° 0' 39" East

Longitude. The climate is tropical, and the desert conditions are trying. Any

expedition had better be made in winter—June or July or August. I shall welcome

further correspondence upon this subject, and am keenly eager to assist in any

plan you may devise. After studying your articles I am deeply impressed with the

profound significance of the whole matter. Dr. Boyle will write later. When rapid

communication is needed, a cable to Perth can be relayed by wireless.

Hoping profoundly for an early message,

Believe me,

Most faithfully yours,

Robert B. F. Mackenzie.

Of the immediate aftermath of this letter, much can be learned from the press. My good

fortune in securing the backing of Miskatonic University was great, and both Mr. Mackenzie

and Dr. Boyle proved invaluable in arranging matters at the Australian end. We were not too

specific with the public about our objects, since the whole matter would have lent itself

unpleasantly to sensational and jocose treatment by the cheaper newspapers. As a result,

printed reports were sparing; but enough appeared to tell of our quest for reported Australian

ruins and to chronicle our various preparatory steps.

Professors William Dyer of the college‘s geology department (leader of the Miskatonic

Antarctic Expedition of 1930–31), Ferdinand C. Ashley of the department of ancient history,

and Tyler M. Freeborn of the department of anthropology—together with my son Wingate—

accompanied me. My correspondent Mackenzie came to Arkham early in 1935 and assisted

in our final preparations. He proved to be a tremendously competent and affable man of about

fifty, admirably well-read, and deeply familiar with all the conditions of Australian travel. He

had tractors waiting at Pilbarra, and we chartered a tramp steamer of sufficiently light draught

to get up the river to that point. We were prepared to excavate in the most careful and

scientific fashion, sifting every particle of sand, and disturbing nothing which might seem to be

in or near its original situation.

Sailing from Boston aboard the wheezy Lexington on March 28, 1935, we had a leisurely trip

across the Atlantic and Mediterranean, through the Suez Canal, down the Red Sea, and

across the Indian Ocean to our goal. I need not tell how the sight of the low, sandy West

Australian coast depressed me, and how I detested the crude mining town and dreary gold

fields where the tractors were given their last loads. Dr. Boyle, who met us, proved to be

elderly, pleasant, and intelligent—and his knowledge of psychology led him into many long

discussions with my son and me.

Discomfort and expectancy were oddly mingled in most of us when at length our party of

eighteen rattled forth over the arid leagues of sand and rock. On Friday, May 31st, we forded

a branch of the De Grey and entered the realm of utter desolation. A certain positive terror

grew on me as we advanced to this actual site of the elder world behind the legends—a terror

of course abetted by the fact that my disturbing dreams and pseudo-memories still beset me

with unabated force.

It was on Monday, June 3, that we saw the first of the half-buried blocks. I cannot describe the

emotions with which I actually touched—in objective reality—a fragment of Cyclopean

masonry in every respect like the blocks in the walls of my dream-buildings. There was a

distinct trace of carving—and my hands trembled as I recognised part of a curvilinear

decorative scheme made hellish to me through years of tormenting nightmare and baffling

research.

A month of digging brought a total of some 1250 blocks in varying stages of wear and

disintegration. Most of these were carven megaliths with curved tops and bottoms. A minority

were smaller, flatter, plain-surfaced, and square or octagonally cut—like those of the floors

and pavements in my dreams—while a few were singularly massive and curved or slanted in

such a manner as to suggest use in vaulting or groining, or as parts of arches or round

window casings. The deeper—and the farther north and east—we dug, the more blocks we

found; though we still failed to discover any trace of arrangement among them. Professor

Dyer was appalled at the measureless age of the fragments, and Freeborn found traces of

symbols which fitted darkly into certain Papuan and Polynesian legends of infinite antiquity.

The condition and scattering of the blocks told mutely of vertiginous cycles of time and

geologic upheavals of cosmic savagery.

We had an aëroplane with us, and my son Wingate would often go up to different heights and

scan the sand-and-rock waste for signs of dim, large-scale outlines—either differences of

level or trails of scattered blocks. His results were virtually negative; for whenever he would

one day think he had glimpsed some significant trend, he would on his next trip find the

impression replaced by another equally insubstantial—a result of the shifting, wind-blown

sand. One or two of these ephemeral suggestions, though, affected me queerly and

disagreeably. They seemed, after a fashion, to dovetail horribly with something which I had

dreamed or read, but which I could no longer remember. There was a terrible pseudo-

familiarity about them—which somehow made me look furtively and apprehensively over the

abominable, sterile terrain toward the north and northeast.

Around the first week in July I developed an unaccountable set of mixed emotions about that

general northeasterly region. There was horror, and there was curiosity—but more than that,

there was a persistent and perplexing illusion of memory. I tried all sorts of psychological

expedients to get these notions out of my head, but met with no success. Sleeplessness also

gained upon me, but I almost welcomed this because of the resultant shortening of my

dream-periods. I acquired the habit of taking long, lone walks in the desert late at night—

usually to the north or northeast, whither the sum of my strange new impulses seemed subtly

to pull me.

Sometimes, on these walks, I would stumble over nearly buried fragments of the ancient

masonry. Though there were fewer visible blocks here than where we had started, I felt sure

that there must be a vast abundance beneath the surface. The ground was less level than at

our camp, and the prevailing high winds now and then piled the sand into fantastic temporary

hillocks—exposing some traces of the elder stones while it covered other traces. I was

queerly anxious to have the excavations extend to this territory, yet at the same time dreaded

what might be revealed. Obviously, I was getting into a rather bad state—all the worse

because I could not account for it.

An indication of my poor nervous health can be gained from my response to an odd discovery

which I made on one of my nocturnal rambles. It was on the evening of July 11th, when a

gibbous moon flooded the mysterious hillocks with a curious pallor. Wandering somewhat

beyond my usual limits, I came upon a great stone which seemed to differ markedly from any

we had yet encountered. It was almost wholly covered, but I stooped and cleared away the

sand with my hands, later studying the object carefully and supplementing the moonlight with

my electric torch. Unlike the other very large rocks, this one was perfectly square-cut, with no

convex or concave surface. It seemed, too, to be of a dark basaltic substance wholly

dissimilar to the granite and sandstone and occasional concrete of the now familiar

fragments.

Suddenly I rose, turned, and ran for the camp at top speed. It was a wholly unconscious and

irrational flight, and only when I was close to my tent did I fully realise why I had run. Then it

came to me. The queer dark stone was something which I had dreamed and read about, and

which was linked with the uttermost horrors of the aeon-old legendry. It was one of the blocks

of that basaltic elder masonry which the fabled Great Race held in such fear—the tall,

windowless ruins left by those brooding, half-material, alien Things that festered in earth‘s

nether abysses and against whose wind-like, invisible forces the trap-doors were sealed and

the sleepless sentinels posted.

I remained awake all that night, but by dawn realised how silly I had been to let the shadow of

a myth upset me. Instead of being frightened, I should have had a discoverer‘s enthusiasm.

The next forenoon I told the others about my find, and Dyer, Freeborn, Boyle, my son, and I

set out to view the anomalous block. Failure, however, confronted us. I had formed no clear

idea of the stone‘s location, and a late wind had wholly altered the hillocks of shifting sand.

VI.

I come now to the crucial and most difficult part of my narrative—all the more difficult because

I cannot be quite certain of its reality. At times I feel uncomfortably sure that I was not

dreaming or deluded; and it is this feeling—in view of the stupendous implications which the

objective truth of my experience would raise—which impels me to make this record. My son—

a trained psychologist with the fullest and most sympathetic knowledge of my whole case—

shall be the primary judge of what I have to tell.

First let me outline the externals of the matter, as those at the camp know them. On the night

of July 17–18, after a windy day, I retired early but could not sleep. Rising shortly before

eleven, and afflicted as usual with that strange feeling regarding the northeastward terrain, I

set out on one of my typical nocturnal walks; seeing and greeting only one person—an

Australian miner named Tupper—as I left our precincts. The moon, slightly past full, shone

from a clear sky and drenched the ancient sands with a white, leprous radiance which

seemed to me somehow infinitely evil. There was no longer any wind, nor did any return for

nearly five hours, as amply attested by Tupper and others who did not sleep through the

night. The Australian last saw me walking rapidly across the pallid, secret-guarding hillocks

toward the northeast.

About 3:30 a.m. a violent wind blew up, waking everyone in camp and felling three of the

tents. The sky was unclouded, and the desert still blazed with that leprous moonlight. As the

party saw to the tents my absence was noted, but in view of my previous walks this

circumstance gave no one alarm. And yet as many as three men—all Australians—seemed to

feel something sinister in the air. Mackenzie explained to Prof. Freeborn that this was a fear

picked up from blackfellow folklore—the natives having woven a curious fabric of malignant

myth about the high winds which at long intervals sweep across the sands under a clear sky.

Such winds, it is whispered, blow out of the great stone huts under the ground where terrible

things have happened—and are never felt except near places where the big marked stones

are scattered. Close to four the gale subsided as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the sand

hills in new and unfamiliar shapes.

It was just past five, with the bloated, fungoid moon sinking in the west, when I staggered into

camp—hatless, tattered, features scratched and ensanguined, and without my electric torch.

Most of the men had returned to bed, but Prof. Dyer was smoking a pipe in front of his tent.

Seeing my winded and almost frenzied state, he called Dr. Boyle, and the two of them got me

on my cot and made me comfortable. My son, roused by the stir, soon joined them, and they

all tried to force me to lie still and attempt sleep.

But there was no sleep for me. My psychological state was very extraordinary—different from

anything I had previously suffered. After a time I insisted upon talking—nervously and

elaborately explaining my condition. I told them I had become fatigued, and had lain down in

the sand for a nap. There had, I said, been dreams even more frightful than usual—and when

I was awaked by the sudden high wind my overwrought nerves had snapped. I had fled in

panic, frequently falling over half-buried stones and thus gaining my tattered and bedraggled

aspect. I must have slept long—hence the hours of my absence.

Of anything strange either seen or experienced I hinted absolutely nothing—exercising the

greatest self-control in that respect. But I spoke of a change of mind regarding the whole work

of the expedition, and earnestly urged a halt in all digging toward the northeast. My reasoning

was patently weak—for I mentioned a dearth of blocks, a wish not to offend the superstitious

miners, a possible shortage of funds from the college, and other things either untrue or

irrelevant. Naturally, no one paid the least attention to my new wishes—not even my son,

whose concern for my health was very obvious.

The next day I was up and around the camp, but took no part in the excavations. Seeing that I

could not stop the work, I decided to return home as soon as possible for the sake of my

nerves, and made my son promise to fly me in the plane to Perth—a thousand miles to the

southwest—as soon as he had surveyed the region I wished let alone. If, I reflected, the thing

I had seen was still visible, I might decide to attempt a specific warning even at the cost of

ridicule. It was just conceivable that the miners who knew the local folklore might back me up.

Humouring me, my son made the survey that very afternoon; flying over all the terrain my

walk could possibly have covered. Yet nothing of what I had found remained in sight. It was

the case of the anomalous basalt block all over again—the shifting sand had wiped out every

trace. For an instant I half regretted having lost a certain awesome object in my stark fright—

but now I know that the loss was merciful. I can still believe my whole experience an illusion—

especially if, as I devoutly hope, that hellish abyss is never found.

Wingate took me to Perth July 20, though declining to abandon the expedition and return

home. He stayed with me until the 25th, when the steamer for Liverpool sailed. Now, in the

cabin of the Empress, I am pondering long and frantically on the entire matter, and have

decided that my son at least must be informed. It shall rest with him whether to diffuse the

matter more widely. In order to meet any eventuality I have prepared this summary of my

background—as already known in a scattered way to others—and will now tell as briefly as

possible what seemed to happen during my absence from the camp that hideous night.

Nerves on edge, and whipped into a kind of perverse eagerness by that inexplicable, dread-

mingled, pseudo-mnemonic urge toward the northeast, I plodded on beneath the evil, burning

moon. Here and there I saw, half-shrouded by the sand, those primal Cyclopean blocks left

from nameless and forgotten aeons. The incalculable age and brooding horror of this

monstrous waste began to oppress me as never before, and I could not keep from thinking of

my maddening dreams, of the frightful legends which lay behind them, and of the present

fears of natives and miners concerning the desert and its carven stones.

And yet I plodded on as if to some eldritch rendezvous—more and more assailed by

bewildering fancies, compulsions, and pseudo-memories. I thought of some of the possible

contours of the lines of stones as seen by my son from the air, and wondered why they

seemed at once so ominous and so familiar. Something was fumbling and rattling at the latch

of my recollection, while another unknown force sought to keep the portal barred.

The night was windless, and the pallid sand curved upward and downward like frozen waves

of the sea. I had no goal, but somehow ploughed along as if with fate-bound assurance. My

dreams welled up into the waking world, so that each sand-embedded megalith seemed part

of endless rooms and corridors of pre-human masonry, carved and hieroglyphed with symbols

that I knew too well from years of custom as a captive mind of the Great Race. At moments I

fancied I saw those omniscient conical horrors moving about at their accustomed tasks, and I

feared to look down lest I find myself one with them in aspect. Yet all the while I saw the sand-

covered blocks as well as the rooms and corridors; the evil, burning moon as well as the

lamps of luminous crystal; the endless desert as well as the waving ferns and cycads beyond

the windows. I was awake and dreaming at the same time.

I do not know how long or how far—or indeed, in just what direction—I had walked when I first

spied the heap of blocks bared by the day‘s wind. It was the largest group in one place that I

had so far seen, and so sharply did it impress me that the visions of fabulous aeons faded

suddenly away. Again there were only the desert and the evil moon and the shards of an

unguessed past. I drew close and paused, and cast the added light of my electric torch over

the tumbled pile. A hillock had blown away, leaving a low, irregularly round mass of megaliths

and smaller fragments some forty feet across and from two to eight feet high.

From the very outset I realised that there was some utterly unprecedented quality about these

stones. Not only was the mere number of them quite without parallel, but something in the

sand-worn traces of design arrested me as I scanned them under the mingled beams of the

moon and my torch. Not that any one differed essentially from the earlier specimens we had

found. It was something subtler than that. The impression did not come when I looked at one

block alone, but only when I ran my eye over several almost simultaneously. Then, at last, the

truth dawned upon me. The curvilinear patterns on many of these blocks were closely

related—parts of one vast decorative conception. For the first time in this aeon-shaken waste

I had come upon a mass of masonry in its old position—tumbled and fragmentary, it is true,

but none the less existing in a very definite sense.

Mounting at a low place, I clambered laboriously over the heap; here and there clearing away

the sand with my fingers, and constantly striving to interpret varieties of size, shape, and

style, and relationships of design. After a while I could vaguely guess at the nature of the

bygone structure, and at the designs which had once stretched over the vast surfaces of the

primal masonry. The perfect identity of the whole with some of my dream-glimpses appalled

and unnerved me. This was once a Cyclopean corridor thirty feet tall, paved with octagonal

blocks and solidly vaulted overhead. There would have been rooms opening off on the right,

and at the farther end one of those strange inclined planes would have wound down to still

lower depths.

I started violently as these conceptions occurred to me, for there was more in them than the

blocks themselves had supplied. How did I know that this level should have been far

underground? How did I know that the plane leading upward should have been behind me?

How did I know that the long subterrene passage to the Square of Pillars ought to lie on the

left one level above me? How did I know that the room of machines, and the rightward-

leading tunnel to the central archives, ought to lie two levels below? How did I know that there

would be one of those horrible, metal-banded trap-doors at the very bottom, four levels down?

Bewildered by this intrusion from the dream-world, I found myself shaking and bathed in a

cold perspiration.

Then, as a last, intolerable touch, I felt that faint, insidious stream of cool air trickling upward

from a depressed place near the centre of the huge heap. Instantly, as once before, my

visions faded, and I saw again only the evil moonlight, the brooding desert, and the spreading

tumulus of palaeogean masonry. Something real and tangible, yet fraught with infinite

suggestions of nighted mystery, now confronted me. For that stream of air could argue but

one thing—a hidden gulf of great size beneath the disordered blocks on the surface.

My first thought was of the sinister blackfellow legends of vast underground huts among the

megaliths where horrors happen and great winds are born. Then thoughts of my own dreams

came back, and I felt dim pseudo-memories tugging at my mind. What manner of place lay

below me? What primal, inconceivable source of age-old myth-cycles and haunting

nightmares might I be on the brink of uncovering? It was only for a moment that I hesitated,

for more than curiosity and scientific zeal was driving me on and working against my growing

fear.

I seemed to move almost automatically, as if in the clutch of some compelling fate. Pocketing

my torch, and struggling with a strength that I had not thought I possessed, I wrenched aside

first one titan fragment of stone and then another, till there welled up a strong draught whose

dampness contrasted oddly with the desert‘s dry air. A black rift began to yawn, and at

length—when I had pushed away every fragment small enough to budge—the leprous

moonlight blazed on an aperture of ample width to admit me.

I drew out my torch and cast a brilliant beam into the opening. Below me was a chaos of

tumbled masonry, sloping roughly down toward the north at an angle of about forty-five

degrees, and evidently the result of some bygone collapse from above. Between its surface

and the ground level was a gulf of impenetrable blackness at whose upper edge were signs of

gigantic, stress-heaved vaulting. At this point, it appeared, the desert‘s sands lay directly upon

a floor of some titan structure of earth‘s youth—how preserved through aeons of geologic

convulsion I could not then and cannot now even attempt to guess.

In retrospect, the barest idea of a sudden, lone descent into such a doubtful abyss—and at a

time when one‘s whereabouts were unknown to any living soul—seems like the utter apex of

insanity. Perhaps it was—yet that night I embarked without hesitancy upon such a descent.

Again there was manifest that lure and driving of fatality which had all along seemed to direct

my course. With torch flashing intermittently to save the battery, I commenced a mad

scramble down the sinister, Cyclopean incline below the opening—sometimes facing forward

as I found good hand and foot holds, and at other times turning to face the heap of megaliths

as I clung and fumbled more precariously. In two directions beside me, distant walls of carven,

crumbling masonry loomed dimly under the direct beams of my torch. Ahead, however, was

only unbroken blackness.

I kept no track of time during my downward scramble. So seething with baffling hints and

images was my mind, that all objective matters seemed withdrawn into incalculable distances.

Physical sensation was dead, and even fear remained as a wraith-like, inactive gargoyle

leering impotently at me. Eventually I reached a level floor strown with fallen blocks,

shapeless fragments of stone, and sand and detritus of every kind. On either side—perhaps

thirty feet apart—rose massive walls culminating in huge groinings. That they were carved I

could just discern, but the nature of the carvings was beyond my perception. What held me

the most was the vaulting overhead. The beam from my torch could not reach the roof, but

the lower parts of the monstrous arches stood out distinctly. And so perfect was their identity

with what I had seen in countless dreams of the elder world, that I trembled actively for the

first time.

Behind and high above, a faint luminous blur told of the distant moonlit world outside. Some

vague shred of caution warned me that I should not let it out of my sight, lest I have no guide

for my return. I now advanced toward the wall on my left, where the traces of carving were

plainest. The littered floor was nearly as hard to traverse as the downward heap had been,

but I managed to pick my difficult way. At one place I heaved aside some blocks and kicked

away the detritus to see what the pavement was like, and shuddered at the utter, fateful

familiarity of the great octagonal stones whose buckled surface still held roughly together.

Reaching a convenient distance from the wall, I cast the torchlight slowly and carefully over its

worn remnants of carving. Some bygone influx of water seemed to have acted on the

sandstone surface, while there were curious incrustations which I could not explain. In places

the masonry was very loose and distorted, and I wondered how many aeons more this primal,

hidden edifice could keep its remaining traces of form amidst earth‘s heavings.

But it was the carvings themselves that excited me most. Despite their time-crumbled state,

they were relatively easy to trace at close range; and the complete, intimate familiarity of

every detail almost stunned my imagination. That the major attributes of this hoary masonry

should be familiar, was not beyond normal credibility. Powerfully impressing the weavers of

certain myths, they had become embodied in a stream of cryptic lore which, somehow coming

to my notice during the amnesic period, had evoked vivid images in my subconscious mind.

But how could I explain the exact and minute fashion in which each line and spiral of these

strange designs tallied with what I had dreamt for more than a score of years? What obscure,

forgotten iconography could have reproduced each subtle shading and nuance which so

persistently, exactly, and unvaryingly besieged my sleeping vision night after night?

For this was no chance or remote resemblance. Definitely and absolutely, the millennially

ancient, aeon-hidden corridor in which I stood was the original of something I knew in sleep

as intimately as I knew my own house in Crane Street, Arkham. True, my dreams shewed the

place in its undecayed prime; but the identity was no less real on that account. I was wholly

and horribly oriented. The particular structure I was in was known to me. Known, too, was its

place in that terrible elder city of dreams. That I could visit unerringly any point in that

structure or in that city which had escaped the changes and devastations of uncounted ages,

I realised with hideous and instinctive certainty. What in God‘s name could all this mean? How

had I come to know what I knew? And what awful reality could lie behind those antique tales

of the beings who had dwelt in this labyrinth of primordial stone?

Words can convey only fractionally the welter of dread and bewilderment which ate at my

spirit. I knew this place. I knew what lay before me, and what had lain overhead before the

myriad towering stories had fallen to dust and debris and the desert. No need now, I thought

with a shudder, to keep that faint blur of moonlight in view. I was torn betwixt a longing to flee

and a feverish mixture of burning curiosity and driving fatality. What had happened to this

monstrous megalopolis of eld in the millions of years since the time of my dreams? Of the

subterrene mazes which had underlain the city and linked all its titan towers, how much had

still survived the writhings of earth‘s crust?

Had I come upon a whole buried world of unholy archaism? Could I still find the house of the

writing-master, and the tower where S‘gg‘ha, a captive mind from the star-headed vegetable

carnivores of Antarctica, had chiselled certain pictures on the blank spaces of the walls?

Would the passage at the second level down, to the hall of the alien minds, be still unchoked

and traversable? In that hall the captive mind of an incredible entity—a half-plastic denizen of

the hollow interior of an unknown trans-Plutonian planet eighteen million years in the future—

had kept a certain thing which it had modelled from clay.

I shut my eyes and put my hand to my head in a vain, pitiful effort to drive these insane

dream-fragments from my consciousness. Then, for the first time, I felt acutely the coolness,

motion, and dampness of the surrounding air. Shuddering, I realised that a vast chain of

aeon-dead black gulfs must indeed be yawning somewhere beyond and below me. I thought

of the frightful chambers and corridors and inclines as I recalled them from my dreams. Would

the way to the central archives still be open? Again that driving fatality tugged insistently at my

brain as I recalled the awesome records that once lay cased in those rectangular vaults of

rustless metal.

There, said the dreams and legends, had reposed the whole history, past and future, of the

cosmic space-time continuum—written by captive minds from every orb and every age in the

solar system. Madness, of course—but had I not now stumbled into a nighted world as mad

as I? I thought of the locked metal shelves, and of the curious knob-twistings needed to open

each one. My own came vividly into my consciousness. How often had I gone through that

intricate routine of varied turns and pressures in the terrestrial vertebrate section on the

lowest level! Every detail was fresh and familiar. If there were such a vault as I had dreamed

of, I could open it in a moment. It was then that madness took me utterly. An instant later, and

I was leaping and stumbling over the rocky debris toward the well-remembered incline to the

depths below.

VII.

From that point forward my impressions are scarcely to be relied on—indeed, I still possess a

final, desperate hope that they all form parts of some daemoniac dream—or illusion born of

delirium. A fever raged in my brain, and everything came to me through a kind of haze—

sometimes only intermittently. The rays of my torch shot feebly into the engulfing blackness,

bringing phantasmal flashes of hideously familiar walls and carvings, all blighted with the

decay of ages. In one place a tremendous mass of vaulting had fallen, so that I had to

clamber over a mighty mound of stones reaching almost to the ragged, grotesquely stalactited

roof. It was all the ultimate apex of nightmare, made worse by the blasphemous tug of

pseudo-memory. One thing only was unfamiliar, and that was my own size in relation to the

monstrous masonry. I felt oppressed by a sense of unwonted smallness, as if the sight of

these towering walls from a mere human body was something wholly new and abnormal.

Again and again I looked nervously down at myself, vaguely disturbed by the human form I

possessed.

Onward through the blackness of the abyss I leaped, plunged, and staggered—often falling

and bruising myself, and once nearly shattering my torch. Every stone and corner of that

daemoniac gulf was known to me, and at many points I stopped to cast beams of light

through choked and crumbling yet familiar archways. Some rooms had totally collapsed;

others were bare or debris-filled. In a few I saw masses of metal—some fairly intact, some

broken, and some crushed or battered—which I recognised as the colossal pedestals or

tables of my dreams. What they could in truth have been, I dared not guess.

I found the downward incline and began its descent—though after a time halted by a gaping,

ragged chasm whose narrowest point could not be much less than four feet across. Here the

stonework had fallen through, revealing incalculable inky depths beneath. I knew there were

two more cellar levels in this titan edifice, and trembled with fresh panic as I recalled the

metal-clamped trap-door on the lowest one. There could be no guards now—for what had

lurked beneath had long since done its hideous work and sunk into its long decline. By the

time of the post-human beetle race it would be quite dead. And yet, as I thought of the native

legends, I trembled anew.

It cost me a terrible effort to vault that yawning chasm, since the littered floor prevented a

running start—but madness drove me on. I chose a place close to the left-hand wall—where

the rift was least wide and the landing-spot reasonably clear of dangerous debris—and after

one frantic moment reached the other side in safety. At last gaining the lower level, I stumbled

on past the archway of the room of machines, within which were fantastic ruins of metal half-

buried beneath fallen vaulting. Everything was where I knew it would be, and I climbed

confidently over the heaps which barred the entrance of a vast transverse corridor. This, I

realised, would take me under the city to the central archives.

Endless ages seemed to unroll as I stumbled, leaped, and crawled along that debris-cluttered

corridor. Now and then I could make out carvings on the age-stained walls—some familiar,

others seemingly added since the period of my dreams. Since this was a subterrene house-

connecting highway, there were no archways save when the route led through the lower

levels of various buildings. At some of these intersections I turned aside long enough to look

down well-remembered corridors and into well-remembered rooms. Twice only did I find any

radical changes from what I had dreamed of—and in one of these cases I could trace the

sealed-up outlines of the archway I remembered.

I shook violently, and felt a curious surge of retarding weakness, as I steered a hurried and

reluctant course through the crypt of one of those great windowless ruined towers whose

alien basalt masonry bespoke a whispered and horrible origin. This primal vault was round

and fully two hundred feet across, with nothing carved upon the dark-hued stonework. The

floor was here free from anything save dust and sand, and I could see the apertures leading

upward and downward. There were no stairs or inclines—indeed, my dreams had pictured

those elder towers as wholly untouched by the fabulous Great Race. Those who had built

them had not needed stairs or inclines. In the dreams, the downward aperture had been

tightly sealed and nervously guarded. Now it lay open—black and yawning, and giving forth a

current of cool, damp air. Of what limitless caverns of eternal night might brood below, I would

not permit myself to think.

Later, clawing my way along a badly heaped section of the corridor, I reached a place where

the roof had wholly caved in. The debris rose like a mountain, and I climbed up over it,

passing through a vast empty space where my torchlight could reveal neither walls nor

vaulting. This, I reflected, must be the cellar of the house of the metal-purveyors, fronting on

the third square not far from the archives. What had happened to it I could not conjecture.

I found the corridor again beyond the mountain of detritus and stones, but after a short

distance encountered a wholly choked place where the fallen vaulting almost touched the

perilously sagging ceiling. How I managed to wrench and tear aside enough blocks to afford a

passage, and how I dared disturb the tightly packed fragments when the least shift of

equilibrium might have brought down all the tons of superincumbent masonry to crush me to

nothingness, I do not know. It was sheer madness that impelled and guided me—if, indeed,

my whole underground adventure was not—as I hope—a hellish delusion or phase of

dreaming. But I did make—or dream that I made—a passage that I could squirm through. As I

wriggled over the mound of debris—my torch, switched continuously on, thrust deeply within

my mouth—I felt myself torn by the fantastic stalactites of the jagged floor above me.

I was now close to the great underground archival structure which seemed to form my goal.

Sliding and clambering down the farther side of the barrier, and picking my way along the

remaining stretch of corridor with hand-held, intermittently flashing torch, I came at last to a

low, circular crypt with arches—still in a marvellous state of preservation—opening off on

every side. The walls, or such parts of them as lay within reach of my torchlight, were densely

hieroglyphed and chiselled with typical curvilinear symbols—some added since the period of

my dreams.

This, I realised, was my fated destination, and I turned at once through a familiar archway on

my left. That I could find a clear passage up and down the incline to all the surviving levels, I

had oddly little doubt. This vast, earth-protected pile, housing the annals of all the solar

system, had been built with supernal skill and strength to last as long as that system itself.

Blocks of stupendous size, poised with mathematical genius and bound with cements of

incredible toughness, had combined to form a mass as firm as the planet‘s rocky core. Here,

after ages more prodigious than I could sanely grasp, its buried bulk stood in all its essential

contours; the vast, dust-drifted floors scarce sprinkled with the litter elsewhere so dominant.

The relatively easy walking from this point onward went curiously to my head. All the frantic

eagerness hitherto frustrated by obstacles now took itself out in a kind of febrile speed, and I

literally raced along the low-roofed, monstrously well-remembered aisles beyond the archway.

I was past being astonished by the familiarity of what I saw. On every hand the great

hieroglyphed metal shelf-doors loomed monstrously; some yet in place, others sprung open,

and still others bent and buckled under bygone geological stresses not quite strong enough to

shatter the titan masonry. Here and there a dust-covered heap below a gaping empty shelf

seemed to indicate where cases had been shaken down by earth-tremors. On occasional

pillars were great symbols or letters proclaiming classes and sub-classes of volumes.

Once I paused before an open vault where I saw some of the accustomed metal cases still in

position amidst the omnipresent gritty dust. Reaching up, I dislodged one of the thinner

specimens with some difficulty, and rested it on the floor for inspection. It was titled in the

prevailing curvilinear hieroglyphs, though something in the arrangement of the characters

seemed subtly unusual. The odd mechanism of the hooked fastener was perfectly well known

to me, and I snapped up the still rustless and workable lid and drew out the book within. The

latter, as expected, was some twenty by fifteen inches in area, and two inches thick; the thin

metal covers opening at the top. Its tough cellulose pages seemed unaffected by the myriad

cycles of time they had lived through, and I studied the queerly pigmented, brush-drawn

letters of the text—symbols utterly unlike either the usual curved hieroglyphs or any alphabet

known to human scholarship—with a haunting, half-aroused memory. It came to me that this

was the language used by a captive mind I had known slightly in my dreams—a mind from a

large asteroid on which had survived much of the archaic life and lore of the primal planet

whereof it formed a fragment. At the same time I recalled that this level of the archives was

devoted to volumes dealing with the non-terrestrial planets.

As I ceased poring over this incredible document I saw that the light of my torch was

beginning to fail, hence quickly inserted the extra battery I always had with me. Then, armed

with the stronger radiance, I resumed my feverish racing through unending tangles of aisles

and corridors—recognising now and then some familiar shelf, and vaguely annoyed by the

acoustic conditions which made my footfalls echo incongruously in these catacombs of aeon-

long death and silence. The very prints of my shoes behind me in the millennially untrodden

dust made me shudder. Never before, if my mad dreams held anything of truth, had human

feet pressed upon those immemorial pavements. Of the particular goal of my insane racing,

my conscious mind held no hint. There was, however, some force of evil potency pulling at my

dazed will and buried recollections, so that I vaguely felt I was not running at random.

I came to a downward incline and followed it to profounder depths. Floors flashed by me as I

raced, but I did not pause to explore them. In my whirling brain there had begun to beat a

certain rhythm which set my right hand twitching in unison. I wanted to unlock something, and

felt that I knew all the intricate twists and pressures needed to do it. It would be like a modern

safe with a combination lock. Dream or not, I had once known and still knew. How any

dream—or scrap of unconsciously absorbed legend—could have taught me a detail so

minute, so intricate, and so complex, I did not attempt to explain to myself. I was beyond all

coherent thought. For was not this whole experience—this shocking familiarity with a set of

unknown ruins, and this monstrously exact identity of everything before me with what only

dreams and scraps of myth could have suggested—a horror beyond all reason? Probably it

was my basic conviction then—as it is now during my saner moments—that I was not awake

at all, and that the entire buried city was a fragment of febrile hallucination.

Eventually I reached the lowest level and struck off to the right of the incline. For some

shadowy reason I tried to soften my steps, even though I lost speed thereby. There was a

space I was afraid to cross on this last, deeply buried floor, and as I drew near it I recalled

what thing in that space I feared. It was merely one of the metal-barred and closely guarded

trap-doors. There would be no guards now, and on that account I trembled and tiptoed as I

had done in passing through that black basalt vault where a similar trap-door had yawned. I

felt a current of cool, damp air, as I had felt there, and wished that my course led in another

direction. Why I had to take the particular course I was taking, I did not know.

When I came to the space I saw that the trap-door yawned widely open. Ahead the shelves

began again, and I glimpsed on the floor before one of them a heap very thinly covered with

dust, where a number of cases had recently fallen. At the same moment a fresh wave of panic

clutched me, though for some time I could not discover why. Heaps of fallen cases were not

uncommon, for all through the aeons this lightless labyrinth had been racked by the heavings

of earth and had echoed at intervals to the deafening clatter of toppling objects. It was only

when I was nearly across the space that I realised why I shook so violently.

Not the heap, but something about the dust of the level floor was troubling me. In the light of

my torch it seemed as if that dust were not as even as it ought to be—there were places

where it looked thinner, as if it had been disturbed not many months before. I could not be

sure, for even the apparently thinner places were dusty enough; yet a certain suspicion of

regularity in the fancied unevenness was highly disquieting. When I brought the torchlight

close to one of the queer places I did not like what I saw—for the illusion of regularity became

very great. It was as if there were regular lines of composite impressions—impressions that

went in threes, each slightly over a foot square, and consisting of five nearly circular three-

inch prints, one in advance of the other four.

These possible lines of foot-square impressions appeared to lead in two directions, as if

something had gone somewhere and returned. They were of course very faint, and may have

been illusions or accidents; but there was an element of dim, fumbling terror about the way I

thought they ran. For at one end of them was the heap of cases which must have clattered

down not long before, while at the other end was the ominous trap-door with the cool, damp

wind, yawning unguarded down to abysses past imagination.

VIII.

That my strange sense of compulsion was deep and overwhelming is shewn by its conquest

of my fear. No rational motive could have drawn me on after that hideous suspicion of prints

and the creeping dream-memories it excited. Yet my right hand, even as it shook with fright,

still twitched rhythmically in its eagerness to turn a lock it hoped to find. Before I knew it I was

past the heap of lately fallen cases and running on tiptoe through aisles of utterly unbroken

dust toward a point which I seemed to know morbidly, horribly well. My mind was asking itself

questions whose origin and relevancy I was only beginning to guess. Would the shelf be

reachable by a human body? Could my human hand master all the aeon-remembered

motions of the lock? Would the lock be undamaged and workable? And what would I do—

what dare I do—with what (as I now commenced to realise) I both hoped and feared to find?

Would it prove the awesome, brain-shattering truth of something past normal conception, or

shew only that I was dreaming?

The next I knew I had ceased my tiptoe racing and was standing still, staring at a row of

maddeningly familiar hieroglyphed shelves. They were in a state of almost perfect

preservation, and only three of the doors in this vicinity had sprung open. My feelings toward

these shelves cannot be described—so utter and insistent was the sense of old acquaintance.

I was looking high up, at a row near the top and wholly out of my reach, and wondering how I

could climb to best advantage. An open door four rows from the bottom would help, and the

locks of the closed doors formed possible holds for hands and feet. I would grip the torch

between my teeth as I had in other places where both hands were needed. Above all, I must

make no noise. How to get down what I wished to remove would be difficult, but I could

probably hook its movable fastener in my coat collar and carry it like a knapsack. Again I

wondered whether the lock would be undamaged. That I could repeat each familiar motion I

had not the least doubt. But I hoped the thing would not scrape or creak—and that my hand

could work it properly.

Even as I thought these things I had taken the torch in my mouth and begun to climb. The

projecting locks were poor supports; but as I had expected, the opened shelf helped greatly. I

used both the difficultly swinging door and the edge of the aperture itself in my ascent, and

managed to avoid any loud creaking. Balanced on the upper edge of the door, and leaning far

to my right, I could just reach the lock I sought. My fingers, half-numb from climbing, were

very clumsy at first; but I soon saw that they were anatomically adequate. And the memory-

rhythm was strong in them. Out of unknown gulfs of time the intricate secret motions had

somehow reached my brain correctly in every detail—for after less than five minutes of trying

there came a click whose familiarity was all the more startling because I had not consciously

anticipated it. In another instant the metal door was slowly swinging open with only the

faintest grating sound.

Dazedly I looked over the row of greyish case-ends thus exposed, and felt a tremendous

surge of some wholly inexplicable emotion. Just within reach of my right hand was a case

whose curving hieroglyphs made me shake with a pang infinitely more complex than one of

mere fright. Still shaking, I managed to dislodge it amidst a shower of gritty flakes, and ease it

over toward myself without any violent noise. Like the other case I had handled, it was slightly

more than twenty by fifteen inches in size, with curved mathematical designs in low relief. In

thickness it just exceeded three inches. Crudely wedging it between myself and the surface I

was climbing, I fumbled with the fastener and finally got the hook free. Lifting the cover, I

shifted the heavy object to my back, and let the hook catch hold of my collar. Hands now free,

I awkwardly clambered down to the dusty floor, and prepared to inspect my prize.

Kneeling in the gritty dust, I swung the case around and rested it in front of me. My hands

shook, and I dreaded to draw out the book within almost as much as I longed—and felt

compelled—to do so. It had very gradually become clear to me what I ought to find, and this

realisation nearly paralysed my faculties. If the thing were there—and if I were not dreaming—

the implications would be quite beyond the power of the human spirit to bear. What tormented

me most was my momentary inability to feel that my surroundings were a dream. The sense

of reality was hideous—and again becomes so as I recall the scene.

At length I tremblingly pulled the book from its container and stared fascinatedly at the well-

known hieroglyphs on the cover. It seemed to be in prime condition, and the curvilinear letters

of the title held me in almost as hypnotised a state as if I could read them. Indeed, I cannot

swear that I did not actually read them in some transient and terrible access of abnormal

memory. I do not know how long it was before I dared to lift that thin metal cover. I temporised

and made excuses to myself. I took the torch from my mouth and shut it off to save the

battery. Then, in the dark, I screwed up my courage—finally lifting the cover without turning on

the light. Last of all I did indeed flash the torch upon the exposed page—steeling myself in

advance to suppress any sound no matter what I should find.

I looked for an instant, then almost collapsed. Clenching my teeth, however, I kept silence. I

sank wholly to the floor and put a hand to my forehead amidst the engulfing blackness. What I

dreaded and expected was there. Either I was dreaming, or time and space had become a

mockery. I must be dreaming—but I would test the horror by carrying this thing back and

shewing it to my son if it were indeed a reality. My head swam frightfully, even though there

were no visible objects in the unbroken gloom to swirl around me. Ideas and images of the

starkest terror—excited by vistas which my glimpse had opened up—began to throng in upon

me and cloud my senses.

I thought of those possible prints in the dust, and trembled at the sound of my own breathing

as I did so. Once again I flashed on the light and looked at the page as a serpent‘s victim may

look at his destroyer‘s eyes and fangs. Then, with clumsy fingers in the dark, I closed the

book, put it in its container, and snapped the lid and the curious hooked fastener. This was

what I must carry back to the outer world if it truly existed—if the whole abyss truly existed—if

I, and the world itself, truly existed.

Just when I tottered to my feet and commenced my return I cannot be certain. It comes to me

oddly—as a measure of my sense of separation from the normal world—that I did not even

once look at my watch during those hideous hours underground. Torch in hand, and with the

ominous case under one arm, I eventually found myself tiptoeing in a kind of silent panic past

the draught-giving abyss and those lurking suggestions of prints. I lessened my precautions

as I climbed up the endless inclines, but could not shake off a shadow of apprehension which

I had not felt on the downward journey.

I dreaded having to re-pass through that black basalt crypt that was older than the city itself,

where cold draughts welled up from unguarded depths. I thought of that which the Great Race

had feared, and of what might still be lurking—be it ever so weak and dying—down there. I

thought of those possible five-circle prints and of what my dreams had told me of such

prints—and of strange winds and whistling noises associated with them. And I thought of the

tales of the modern blacks, wherein the horror of great winds and nameless subterrene ruins

was dwelt upon.

I knew from a carven wall symbol the right floor to enter, and came at last—after passing that

other book I had examined—to the great circular space with the branching archways. On my

right, and at once recognisable, was the arch through which I had arrived. This I now entered,

conscious that the rest of my course would be harder because of the tumbled state of the

masonry outside the archive building. My new metal-cased burden weighed upon me, and I

found it harder and harder to be quiet as I stumbled among debris and fragments of every

sort.

Then I came to the ceiling-high mound of debris through which I had wrenched a scanty

passage. My dread at wriggling through again was infinite; for my first passage had made

some noise, and I now—after seeing those possible prints—dreaded sound above all things.

The case, too, doubled the problem of traversing the narrow crevice. But I clambered up the

barrier as best I could, and pushed the case through the aperture ahead of me. Then, torch in

mouth, I scrambled through myself—my back torn as before by stalactites. As I tried to grasp

the case again, it fell some distance ahead of me down the slope of the debris, making a

disturbing clatter and arousing echoes which sent me into a cold perspiration. I lunged for it at

once, and regained it without further noise—but a moment afterward the slipping of blocks

under my feet raised a sudden and unprecedented din.

The din was my undoing. For, falsely or not, I thought I heard it answered in a terrible way

from spaces far behind me. I thought I heard a shrill, whistling sound, like nothing else on

earth, and beyond any adequate verbal description. It may have been only my imagination. If

so, what followed has a grim irony—since, save for the panic of this thing, the second thing

might never have happened.

As it was, my frenzy was absolute and unrelieved. Taking my torch in my hand and clutching

feebly at the case, I leaped and bounded wildly ahead with no idea in my brain beyond a mad

desire to race out of these nightmare ruins to the waking world of desert and moonlight which

lay so far above. I hardly knew it when I reached the mountain of debris which towered into

the vast blackness beyond the caved-in roof, and bruised and cut myself repeatedly in

scrambling up its steep slope of jagged blocks and fragments. Then came the great disaster.

Just as I blindly crossed the summit, unprepared for the sudden dip ahead, my feet slipped

utterly and I found myself involved in a mangling avalanche of sliding masonry whose

cannon-loud uproar split the black cavern air in a deafening series of earth-shaking

reverberations.

I have no recollection of emerging from this chaos, but a momentary fragment of

consciousness shews me as plunging and tripping and scrambling along the corridor amidst

the clangour—case and torch still with me. Then, just as I approached that primal basalt crypt

I had so dreaded, utter madness came. For as the echoes of the avalanche died down, there

became audible a repetition of that frightful, alien whistling I thought I had heard before. This

time there was no doubt about it—and what was worse, it came from a point not behind but

ahead of me.

Probably I shrieked aloud then. I have a dim picture of myself as flying through the hellish

basalt vault of the Elder Things, and hearing that damnable alien sound piping up from the

open, unguarded door of limitless nether blacknesses. There was a wind, too—not merely a

cool, damp draught, but a violent, purposeful blast belching savagely and frigidly from that

abominable gulf whence the obscene whistling came.

There are memories of leaping and lurching over obstacles of every sort, with that torrent of

wind and shrieking sound growing moment by moment, and seeming to curl and twist

purposefully around me as it struck out wickedly from the spaces behind and beneath.

Though in my rear, that wind had the odd effect of hindering instead of aiding my progress; as

if it acted like a noose or lasso thrown around me. Heedless of the noise I made, I clattered

over a great barrier of blocks and was again in the structure that led to the surface. I recall

glimpsing the archway to the room of machines and almost crying out as I saw the incline

leading down to where one of those blasphemous trap-doors must be yawning two levels

below. But instead of crying out I muttered over and over to myself that this was all a dream

from which I must soon awake. Perhaps I was in camp—perhaps I was at home in Arkham.

As these hopes bolstered up my sanity I began to mount the incline to the higher level.

I knew, of course, that I had the four-foot cleft to re-cross, yet was too racked by other fears to

realise the full horror until I came almost upon it. On my descent, the leap across had been

easy—but could I clear the gap as readily when going uphill, and hampered by fright,

exhaustion, the weight of the metal case, and the anomalous backward tug of that daemon

wind? I thought of these things at the last moment, and thought also of the nameless entities

which might be lurking in the black abysses below the chasm.

My wavering torch was growing feeble, but I could tell by some obscure memory when I

neared the cleft. The chill blasts of wind and the nauseous whistling shrieks behind me were

for the moment like a merciful opiate, dulling my imagination to the horror of the yawning gulf

ahead. And then I became aware of the added blasts and whistling in front of me—tides of

abomination surging up through the cleft itself from depths unimagined and unimaginable.

Now, indeed, the essence of pure nightmare was upon me. Sanity departed—and ignoring

everything except the animal impulse of flight, I merely struggled and plunged upward over

the incline‘s debris as if no gulf had existed. Then I saw the chasm‘s edge, leaped frenziedly

with every ounce of strength I possessed, and was instantly engulfed in a pandaemoniac

vortex of loathsome sound and utter, materially tangible blackness.

This is the end of my experience, so far as I can recall. Any further impressions belong wholly

to the domain of phantasmagoric delirium. Dream, madness, and memory merged wildly

together in a series of fantastic, fragmentary delusions which can have no relation to anything

real. There was a hideous fall through incalculable leagues of viscous, sentient darkness, and

a babel of noises utterly alien to all that we know of the earth and its organic life. Dormant,

rudimentary senses seemed to start into vitality within me, telling of pits and voids peopled by

floating horrors and leading to sunless crags and oceans and teeming cities of windowless

basalt towers upon which no light ever shone.

Secrets of the primal planet and its immemorial aeons flashed through my brain without the

aid of sight or sound, and there were known to me things which not even the wildest of my

former dreams had ever suggested. And all the while cold fingers of damp vapour clutched

and picked at me, and that eldritch, damnable whistling shrieked fiendishly above all the

alternations of babel and silence in the whirlpools of darkness around.

Afterward there were visions of the Cyclopean city of my dreams—not in ruins, but just as I

had dreamed of it. I was in my conical, non-human body again, and mingled with crowds of

the Great Race and the captive minds who carried books up and down the lofty corridors and

vast inclines. Then, superimposed upon these pictures, were frightful momentary flashes of a

non-visual consciousness involving desperate struggles, a writhing free from clutching

tentacles of whistling wind, an insane, bat-like flight through half-solid air, a feverish burrowing

through the cyclone-whipped dark, and a wild stumbling and scrambling over fallen masonry.

Once there was a curious, intrusive flash of half-sight—a faint, diffuse suspicion of bluish

radiance far overhead. Then there came a dream of wind-pursued climbing and crawling—of

wriggling into a blaze of sardonic moonlight through a jumble of debris which slid and

collapsed after me amidst a morbid hurricane. It was the evil, monotonous beating of that

maddening moonlight which at last told me of the return of what I had once known as the

objective, waking world.

I was clawing prone through the sands of the Australian desert, and around me shrieked such

a tumult of wind as I had never before known on our planet‘s surface. My clothing was in rags,

and my whole body was a mass of bruises and scratches. Full consciousness returned very

slowly, and at no time could I tell just where true memory left off and delirious dream began.

There had seemed to be a mound of titan blocks, an abyss beneath it, a monstrous revelation

from the past, and a nightmare horror at the end—but how much of this was real? My

flashlight was gone, and likewise any metal case I may have discovered. Had there been

such a case—or any abyss—or any mound? Raising my head, I looked behind me, and saw

only the sterile, undulant sands of the waste.

The daemon wind died down, and the bloated, fungoid moon sank reddeningly in the west. I

lurched to my feet and began to stagger southwestward toward the camp. What in truth had

happened to me? Had I merely collapsed in the desert and dragged a dream-racked body

over miles of sand and buried blocks? If not, how could I bear to live any longer? For in this

new doubt all my faith in the myth-born unreality of my visions dissolved once more into the

hellish older doubting. If that abyss was real, then the Great Race was real—and its

blasphemous reachings and seizures in the cosmos-wide vortex of time were no myths or

nightmares, but a terrible, soul-shattering actuality.

Had I, in full hideous fact, been drawn back to a pre-human world of a hundred and fifty

million years ago in those dark, baffling days of the amnesia? Had my present body been the

vehicle of a frightful alien consciousness from palaeogean gulfs of time? Had I, as the captive

mind of those shambling horrors, indeed known that accursed city of stone in its primordial

heyday, and wriggled down those familiar corridors in the loathsome shape of my captor?

Were those tormenting dreams of more than twenty years the offspring of stark, monstrous

memories? Had I once veritably talked with minds from reachless corners of time and space,

learned the universe‘s secrets past and to come, and written the annals of my own world for

the metal cases of those titan archives? And were those others—those shocking Elder Things

of the mad winds and daemon pipings—in truth a lingering, lurking menace, waiting and

slowly weakening in black abysses while varied shapes of life drag out their multimillennial

courses on the planet‘s age-racked surface?

I do not know. If that abyss and what it held were real, there is no hope. Then, all too truly,

there lies upon this world of man a mocking and incredible shadow out of time. But mercifully,

there is no proof that these things are other than fresh phases of my myth-born dreams. I did

not bring back the metal case that would have been a proof, and so far those subterrene

corridors have not been found. If the laws of the universe are kind, they will never be found.

But I must tell my son what I saw or thought I saw, and let him use his judgment as a

psychologist in gauging the reality of my experience, and communicating this account to

others.

I have said that the awful truth behind my tortured years of dreaming hinges absolutely upon

the actuality of what I thought I saw in those Cyclopean buried ruins. It has been hard for me

literally to set down the crucial revelation, though no reader can have failed to guess it. Of

course it lay in that book within the metal case—the case which I pried out of its forgotten lair

amidst the undisturbed dust of a million centuries. No eye had seen, no hand had touched

that book since the advent of man to this planet. And yet, when I flashed my torch upon it in

that frightful megalithic abyss, I saw that the queerly pigmented letters on the brittle, aeon-

browned cellulose pages were not indeed any nameless hieroglyphs of earth‘s youth. They

were, instead, the letters of our familiar alphabet, spelling out the words of the English

language in my own handwriting.

Return to Table of Contents

The Haunter of the Dark

(1935)

(Dedicated to Robert Bloch)

I have seen the dark universe yawning

Where the black planets roll without aim—

Where they roll in their horror unheeded,

Without knowledge or lustre or name.

—Nemesis.

Cautious investigators will hesitate to challenge the common belief that Robert Blake was

killed by lightning, or by some profound nervous shock derived from an electrical discharge. It

is true that the window he faced was unbroken, but Nature has shewn herself capable of

many freakish performances. The expression on his face may easily have arisen from some

obscure muscular source unrelated to anything he saw, while the entries in his diary are

clearly the result of a fantastic imagination aroused by certain local superstitions and by

certain old matters he had uncovered. As for the anomalous conditions at the deserted church

on Federal Hill—the shrewd analyst is not slow in attributing them to some charlatanry,

conscious or unconscious, with at least some of which Blake was secretly connected.

For after all, the victim was a writer and painter wholly devoted to the field of myth, dream,

terror, and superstition, and avid in his quest for scenes and effects of a bizarre, spectral sort.

His earlier stay in the city—a visit to a strange old man as deeply given to occult and

forbidden lore as he—had ended amidst death and flame, and it must have been some

morbid instinct which drew him back from his home in Milwaukee. He may have known of the

old stories despite his statements to the contrary in the diary, and his death may have nipped

in the bud some stupendous hoax destined to have a literary reflection.

Among those, however, who have examined and correlated all this evidence, there remain

several who cling to less rational and commonplace theories. They are inclined to take much

of Blake‘s diary at its face value, and point significantly to certain facts such as the undoubted

genuineness of the old church record, the verified existence of the disliked and unorthodox

Starry Wisdom sect prior to 1877, the recorded disappearance of an inquisitive reporter

named Edwin M. Lillibridge in 1893, and—above all—the look of monstrous, transfiguring fear

on the face of the young writer when he died. It was one of these believers who, moved to

fanatical extremes, threw into the bay the curiously angled stone and its strangely adorned

metal box found in the old church steeple—the black windowless steeple, and not the tower

where Blake‘s diary said those things originally were. Though widely censured both officially

and unofficially, this man—a reputable physician with a taste for odd folklore—averred that he

had rid the earth of something too dangerous to rest upon it.

Between these two schools of opinion the reader must judge for himself. The papers have

given the tangible details from a sceptical angle, leaving for others the drawing of the picture

as Robert Blake saw it—or thought he saw it—or pretended to see it. Now, studying the diary

closely, dispassionately, and at leisure, let us summarise the dark chain of events from the

expressed point of view of their chief actor.

Young Blake returned to Providence in the winter of 1934–5, taking the upper floor of a

venerable dwelling in a grassy court off College Street—on the crest of the great eastward hill

near the Brown University campus and behind the marble John Hay Library. It was a cosy and

fascinating place, in a little garden oasis of village-like antiquity where huge, friendly cats

sunned themselves atop a convenient shed. The square Georgian house had a monitor roof,

classic doorway with fan carving, small-paned windows, and all the other earmarks of early

nineteenth-century workmanship. Inside were six-panelled doors, wide floor-boards, a curving

colonial staircase, white Adam-period mantels, and a rear set of rooms three steps below the

general level.

Blake‘s study, a large southwest chamber, overlooked the front garden on one side, while its

west windows—before one of which he had his desk—faced off from the brow of the hill and

commanded a splendid view of the lower town‘s outspread roofs and of the mystical sunsets

that flamed behind them. On the far horizon were the open countryside‘s purple slopes.

Against these, some two miles away, rose the spectral hump of Federal Hill, bristling with

huddled roofs and steeples whose remote outlines wavered mysteriously, taking fantastic

forms as the smoke of the city swirled up and enmeshed them. Blake had a curious sense

that he was looking upon some unknown, ethereal world which might or might not vanish in

dream if ever he tried to seek it out and enter it in person.

Having sent home for most of his books, Blake bought some antique furniture suitable to his

quarters and settled down to write and paint—living alone, and attending to the simple

housework himself. His studio was in a north attic room, where the panes of the monitor roof

furnished admirable lighting. During that first winter he produced five of his best-known short

stories—―The Burrower Beneath‖, ―The Stairs in the Crypt‖, ―Shaggai‖, ―In the Vale of Pnath‖,

and ―The Feaster from the Stars‖—and painted seven canvases; studies of nameless,

unhuman monsters, and profoundly alien, non-terrestrial landscapes.

At sunset he would often sit at his desk and gaze dreamily off at the outspread west—the dark

towers of Memorial Hall just below, the Georgian court-house belfry, the lofty pinnacles of the

downtown section, and that shimmering, spire-crowned mound in the distance whose

unknown streets and labyrinthine gables so potently provoked his fancy. From his few local

acquaintances he learned that the far-off slope was a vast Italian quarter, though most of the

houses were remnants of older Yankee and Irish days. Now and then he would train his field-

glasses on that spectral, unreachable world beyond the curling smoke; picking out individual

roofs and chimneys and steeples, and speculating upon the bizarre and curious mysteries

they might house. Even with optical aid Federal Hill seemed somehow alien, half fabulous,

and linked to the unreal, intangible marvels of Blake‘s own tales and pictures. The feeling

would persist long after the hill had faded into the violet, lamp-starred twilight, and the court-

house floodlights and the red Industrial Trust beacon had blazed up to make the night

grotesque.

Of all the distant objects on Federal Hill, a certain huge, dark church most fascinated Blake. It

stood out with especial distinctness at certain hours of the day, and at sunset the great tower

and tapering steeple loomed blackly against the flaming sky. It seemed to rest on especially

high ground; for the grimy facade, and the obliquely seen north side with sloping roof and the

tops of great pointed windows, rose boldly above the tangle of surrounding ridgepoles and

chimney-pots. Peculiarly grim and austere, it appeared to be built of stone, stained and

weathered with the smoke and storms of a century and more. The style, so far as the glass

could shew, was that earliest experimental form of Gothic revival which preceded the stately

Upjohn period and held over some of the outlines and proportions of the Georgian age.

Perhaps it was reared around 1810 or 1815.

As months passed, Blake watched the far-off, forbidding structure with an oddly mounting

interest. Since the vast windows were never lighted, he knew that it must be vacant. The

longer he watched, the more his imagination worked, till at length he began to fancy curious

things. He believed that a vague, singular aura of desolation hovered over the place, so that

even the pigeons and swallows shunned its smoky eaves. Around other towers and belfries

his glass would reveal great flocks of birds, but here they never rested. At least, that is what

he thought and set down in his diary. He pointed the place out to several friends, but none of

them had even been on Federal Hill or possessed the faintest notion of what the church was

or had been.

In the spring a deep restlessness gripped Blake. He had begun his long-planned novel—

based on a supposed survival of the witch-cult in Maine—but was strangely unable to make

progress with it. More and more he would sit at his westward window and gaze at the distant

hill and the black, frowning steeple shunned by the birds. When the delicate leaves came out

on the garden boughs the world was filled with a new beauty, but Blake‘s restlessness was

merely increased. It was then that he first thought of crossing the city and climbing bodily up

that fabulous slope into the smoke-wreathed world of dream.

Late in April, just before the aeon-shadowed Walpurgis time, Blake made his first trip into the

unknown. Plodding through the endless downtown streets and the bleak, decayed squares

beyond, he came finally upon the ascending avenue of century-worn steps, sagging Doric

porches, and blear-paned cupolas which he felt must lead up to the long-known, unreachable

world beyond the mists. There were dingy blue-and-white street signs which meant nothing to

him, and presently he noted the strange, dark faces of the drifting crowds, and the foreign

signs over curious shops in brown, decade-weathered buildings. Nowhere could he find any

of the objects he had seen from afar; so that once more he half fancied that the Federal Hill of

that distant view was a dream-world never to be trod by living human feet.

Now and then a battered church facade or crumbling spire came in sight, but never the

blackened pile that he sought. When he asked a shopkeeper about a great stone church the

man smiled and shook his head, though he spoke English freely. As Blake climbed higher, the

region seemed stranger and stranger, with bewildering mazes of brooding brown alleys

leading eternally off to the south. He crossed two or three broad avenues, and once thought

he glimpsed a familiar tower. Again he asked a merchant about the massive church of stone,

and this time he could have sworn that the plea of ignorance was feigned. The dark man‘s

face had a look of fear which he tried to hide, and Blake saw him make a curious sign with his

right hand.

Then suddenly a black spire stood out against the cloudy sky on his left, above the tiers of

brown roofs lining the tangled southerly alleys. Blake knew at once what it was, and plunged

toward it through the squalid, unpaved lanes that climbed from the avenue. Twice he lost his

way, but he somehow dared not ask any of the patriarchs or housewives who sat on their

doorsteps, or any of the children who shouted and played in the mud of the shadowy lanes.

At last he saw the tower plain against the southwest, and a huge stone bulk rose darkly at the

end of an alley. Presently he stood in a windswept open square, quaintly cobblestoned, with a

high bank wall on the farther side. This was the end of his quest; for upon the wide, iron-

railed, weed-grown plateau which the wall supported—a separate, lesser world raised fully six

feet above the surrounding streets—there stood a grim, titan bulk whose identity, despite

Blake‘s new perspective, was beyond dispute.

The vacant church was in a state of great decrepitude. Some of the high stone buttresses had

fallen, and several delicate finials lay half lost among the brown, neglected weeds and

grasses. The sooty Gothic windows were largely unbroken, though many of the stone

mullions were missing. Blake wondered how the obscurely painted panes could have survived

so well, in view of the known habits of small boys the world over. The massive doors were

intact and tightly closed. Around the top of the bank wall, fully enclosing the grounds, was a

rusty iron fence whose gate—at the head of a flight of steps from the square—was visibly

padlocked. The path from the gate to the building was completely overgrown. Desolation and

decay hung like a pall above the place, and in the birdless eaves and black, ivyless walls

Blake felt a touch of the dimly sinister beyond his power to define.

There were very few people in the square, but Blake saw a policeman at the northerly end

and approached him with questions about the church. He was a great wholesome Irishman,

and it seemed odd that he would do little more than make the sign of the cross and mutter

that people never spoke of that building. When Blake pressed him he said very hurriedly that

the Italian priests warned everybody against it, vowing that a monstrous evil had once dwelt

there and left its mark. He himself had heard dark whispers of it from his father, who recalled

certain sounds and rumours from his boyhood.

There had been a bad sect there in the ould days—an outlaw sect that called up awful things

from some unknown gulf of night. It had taken a good priest to exorcise what had come,

though there did be those who said that merely the light could do it. If Father O‘Malley were

alive there would be many the thing he could tell. But now there was nothing to do but let it

alone. It hurt nobody now, and those that owned it were dead or far away. They had run away

like rats after the threatening talk in ‘77, when people began to mind the way folks vanished

now and then in the neighbourhood. Some day the city would step in and take the property for

lack of heirs, but little good would come of anybody‘s touching it. Better it be left alone for the

years to topple, lest things be stirred that ought to rest forever in their black abyss.

After the policeman had gone Blake stood staring at the sullen steepled pile. It excited him to

find that the structure seemed as sinister to others as to him, and he wondered what grain of

truth might lie behind the old tales the bluecoat had repeated. Probably they were mere

legends evoked by the evil look of the place, but even so, they were like a strange coming to

life of one of his own stories.

The afternoon sun came out from behind dispersing clouds, but seemed unable to light up the

stained, sooty walls of the old temple that towered on its high plateau. It was odd that the

green of spring had not touched the brown, withered growths in the raised, iron-fenced yard.

Blake found himself edging nearer the raised area and examining the bank wall and rusted

fence for possible avenues of ingress. There was a terrible lure about the blackened fane

which was not to be resisted. The fence had no opening near the steps, but around on the

north side were some missing bars. He could go up the steps and walk around on the narrow

coping outside the fence till he came to the gap. If the people feared the place so wildly, he

would encounter no interference.

He was on the embankment and almost inside the fence before anyone noticed him. Then,

looking down, he saw the few people in the square edging away and making the same sign

with their right hands that the shopkeeper in the avenue had made. Several windows were

slammed down, and a fat woman darted into the street and pulled some small children inside

a rickety, unpainted house. The gap in the fence was very easy to pass through, and before

long Blake found himself wading amidst the rotting, tangled growths of the deserted yard.

Here and there the worn stump of a headstone told him that there had once been burials in

this field; but that, he saw, must have been very long ago. The sheer bulk of the church was

oppressive now that he was close to it, but he conquered his mood and approached to try the

three great doors in the facade. All were securely locked, so he began a circuit of the

Cyclopean building in quest of some minor and more penetrable opening. Even then he could

not be sure that he wished to enter that haunt of desertion and shadow, yet the pull of its

strangeness dragged him on automatically.

A yawning and unprotected cellar window in the rear furnished the needed aperture. Peering

in, Blake saw a subterrene gulf of cobwebs and dust faintly litten by the western sun‘s filtered

rays. Debris, old barrels, and ruined boxes and furniture of numerous sorts met his eye,

though over everything lay a shroud of dust which softened all sharp outlines. The rusted

remains of a hot-air furnace shewed that the building had been used and kept in shape as

late as mid-Victorian times.

Acting almost without conscious initiative, Blake crawled through the window and let himself

down to the dust-carpeted and debris-strown concrete floor. The vaulted cellar was a vast

one, without partitions; and in a corner far to the right, amid dense shadows, he saw a black

archway evidently leading upstairs. He felt a peculiar sense of oppression at being actually

within the great spectral building, but kept it in check as he cautiously scouted about—finding

a still-intact barrel amid the dust, and rolling it over to the open window to provide for his exit.

Then, bracing himself, he crossed the wide, cobweb-festooned space toward the arch. Half

choked with the omnipresent dust, and covered with ghostly gossamer fibres, he reached and

began to climb the worn stone steps which rose into the darkness. He had no light, but

groped carefully with his hands. After a sharp turn he felt a closed door ahead, and a little

fumbling revealed its ancient latch. It opened inward, and beyond it he saw a dimly illumined

corridor lined with worm-eaten panelling.

Once on the ground floor, Blake began exploring in a rapid fashion. All the inner doors were

unlocked, so that he freely passed from room to room. The colossal nave was an almost

eldritch place with its drifts and mountains of dust over box pews, altar, hourglass pulpit, and

sounding-board, and its titanic ropes of cobweb stretching among the pointed arches of the

gallery and entwining the clustered Gothic columns. Over all this hushed desolation played a

hideous leaden light as the declining afternoon sun sent its rays through the strange, half-

blackened panes of the great apsidal windows.

The paintings on those windows were so obscured by soot that Blake could scarcely decipher

what they had represented, but from the little he could make out he did not like them. The

designs were largely conventional, and his knowledge of obscure symbolism told him much

concerning some of the ancient patterns. The few saints depicted bore expressions distinctly

open to criticism, while one of the windows seemed to shew merely a dark space with spirals

of curious luminosity scattered about in it. Turning away from the windows, Blake noticed that

the cobwebbed cross above the altar was not of the ordinary kind, but resembled the

primordial ankh or crux ansata of shadowy Egypt.

In a rear vestry room beside the apse Blake found a rotting desk and ceiling-high shelves of

mildewed, disintegrating books. Here for the first time he received a positive shock of

objective horror, for the titles of those books told him much. They were the black, forbidden

things which most sane people have never even heard of, or have heard of only in furtive,

timorous whispers; the banned and dreaded repositories of equivocal secrets and immemorial

formulae which have trickled down the stream of time from the days of man‘s youth, and the

dim, fabulous days before man was. He had himself read many of them—a Latin version of

the abhorred Necronomicon, the sinister Liber Ivonis, the infamous Cultes des Goules of

Comte d‘Erlette, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, and old Ludvig Prinn‘s hellish De

Vermis Mysteriis. But there were others he had known merely by reputation or not at all—the

Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Book of Dzyan, and a crumbling volume in wholly unidentifiable

characters yet with certain symbols and diagrams shudderingly recognisable to the occult

student. Clearly, the lingering local rumours had not lied. This place had once been the seat of

an evil older than mankind and wider than the known universe.

In the ruined desk was a small leather-bound record-book filled with entries in some odd

cryptographic medium. The manuscript writing consisted of the common traditional symbols

used today in astronomy and anciently in alchemy, astrology, and other dubious arts—the

devices of the sun, moon, planets, aspects, and zodiacal signs—here massed in solid pages

of text, with divisions and paragraphings suggesting that each symbol answered to some

alphabetical letter.

In the hope of later solving the cryptogram, Blake bore off this volume in his coat pocket.

Many of the great tomes on the shelves fascinated him unutterably, and he felt tempted to

borrow them at some later time. He wondered how they could have remained undisturbed so

long. Was he the first to conquer the clutching, pervasive fear which had for nearly sixty years

protected this deserted place from visitors?

Having now thoroughly explored the ground floor, Blake ploughed again through the dust of

the spectral nave to the front vestibule, where he had seen a door and staircase presumably

leading up to the blackened tower and steeple—objects so long familiar to him at a distance.

The ascent was a choking experience, for dust lay thick, while the spiders had done their

worst in this constricted place. The staircase was a spiral with high, narrow wooden treads,

and now and then Blake passed a clouded window looking dizzily out over the city. Though he

had seen no ropes below, he expected to find a bell or peal of bells in the tower whose

narrow, louver-boarded lancet windows his field-glass had studied so often. Here he was

doomed to disappointment; for when he attained the top of the stairs he found the tower

chamber vacant of chimes, and clearly devoted to vastly different purposes.

The room, about fifteen feet square, was faintly lighted by four lancet windows, one on each

side, which were glazed within their screening of decayed louver-boards. These had been

further fitted with tight, opaque screens, but the latter were now largely rotted away. In the

centre of the dust-laden floor rose a curiously angled stone pillar some four feet in height and

two in average diameter, covered on each side with bizarre, crudely incised, and wholly

unrecognisable hieroglyphs. On this pillar rested a metal box of peculiarly asymmetrical form;

its hinged lid thrown back, and its interior holding what looked beneath the decade-deep dust

to be an egg-shaped or irregularly spherical object some four inches through. Around the

pillar in a rough circle were seven high-backed Gothic chairs still largely intact, while behind

them, ranging along the dark-panelled walls, were seven colossal images of crumbling, black-

painted plaster, resembling more than anything else the cryptic carven megaliths of

mysterious Easter Island. In one corner of the cobwebbed chamber a ladder was built into the

wall, leading up to the closed trap-door of the windowless steeple above.

As Blake grew accustomed to the feeble light he noticed odd bas-reliefs on the strange open

box of yellowish metal. Approaching, he tried to clear the dust away with his hands and

handkerchief, and saw that the figurings were of a monstrous and utterly alien kind; depicting

entities which, though seemingly alive, resembled no known life-form ever evolved on this

planet. The four-inch seeming sphere turned out to be a nearly black, red-striated polyhedron

with many irregular flat surfaces; either a very remarkable crystal of some sort, or an artificial

object of carved and highly polished mineral matter. It did not touch the bottom of the box, but

was held suspended by means of a metal band around its centre, with seven queerly

designed supports extending horizontally to angles of the box‘s inner wall near the top. This

stone, once exposed, exerted upon Blake an almost alarming fascination. He could scarcely

tear his eyes from it, and as he looked at its glistening surfaces he almost fancied it was

transparent, with half-formed worlds of wonder within. Into his mind floated pictures of alien

orbs with great stone towers, and other orbs with titan mountains and no mark of life, and still

remoter spaces where only a stirring in vague blacknesses told of the presence of

consciousness and will.

When he did look away, it was to notice a somewhat singular mound of dust in the far corner

near the ladder to the steeple. Just why it took his attention he could not tell, but something in

its contours carried a message to his unconscious mind. Ploughing toward it, and brushing

aside the hanging cobwebs as he went, he began to discern something grim about it. Hand

and handkerchief soon revealed the truth, and Blake gasped with a baffling mixture of

emotions. It was a human skeleton, and it must have been there for a very long time. The

clothing was in shreds, but some buttons and fragments of cloth bespoke a man‘s grey suit.

There were other bits of evidence—shoes, metal clasps, huge buttons for round cuffs, a

stickpin of bygone pattern, a reporter‘s badge with the name of the old Providence Telegram,

and a crumbling leather pocketbook. Blake examined the latter with care, finding within it

several bills of antiquated issue, a celluloid advertising calendar for 1893, some cards with the

name ―Edwin M. Lillibridge‖, and a paper covered with pencilled memoranda.

This paper held much of a puzzling nature, and Blake read it carefully at the dim westward

window. Its disjointed text included such phrases as the following:

―Prof. Enoch Bowen home from Egypt May 1844—buys old Free-Will Church in

July—his archaeological work & studies in occult well known.‖

―Dr. Drowne of 4th Baptist warns against Starry Wisdom in sermon Dec. 29, 1844.‖

―Congregation 97 by end of ‘45.‖

―1846—3 disappearances—first mention of Shining Trapezohedron.‖

―7 disappearances 1848—stories of blood sacrifice begin.‖

―Investigation 1853 comes to nothing—stories of sounds.‖

―Fr. O‘Malley tells of devil-worship with box found in great Egyptian ruins—says

they call up something that can‘t exist in light. Flees a little light, and banished by

strong light. Then has to be summoned again. Probably got this from deathbed

confession of Francis X. Feeney, who had joined Starry Wisdom in ‘49. These

people say the Shining Trapezohedron shews them heaven & other worlds, & that

the Haunter of the Dark tells them secrets in some way.‖

―Story of Orrin B. Eddy 1857. They call it up by gazing at the crystal, & have a

secret language of their own.‖

―200 or more in cong. 1863, exclusive of men at front.‖

―Irish boys mob church in 1869 after Patrick Regan‘s disappearance.‖

―Veiled article in J. March 14, ‘72, but people don‘t talk about it.‖

―6 disappearances 1876—secret committee calls on Mayor Doyle.‖

―Action promised Feb. 1877—church closes in April.‖

―Gang—Federal Hill Boys—threaten Dr. —— and vestrymen in May.‖

―181 persons leave city before end of ‘77—mention no names.‖

―Ghost stories begin around 1880—try to ascertain truth of report that no human

being has entered church since 1877.‖

―Ask Lanigan for photograph of place taken 1851.‖ . . .

Restoring the paper to the pocketbook and placing the latter in his coat, Blake turned to look

down at the skeleton in the dust. The implications of the notes were clear, and there could be

no doubt but that this man had come to the deserted edifice forty-two years before in quest of

a newspaper sensation which no one else had been bold enough to attempt. Perhaps no one

else had known of his plan—who could tell? But he had never returned to his paper. Had

some bravely suppressed fear risen to overcome him and bring on sudden heart-failure?

Blake stooped over the gleaming bones and noted their peculiar state. Some of them were

badly scattered, and a few seemed oddly dissolved at the ends. Others were strangely

yellowed, with vague suggestions of charring. This charring extended to some of the

fragments of clothing. The skull was in a very peculiar state—stained yellow, and with a

charred aperture in the top as if some powerful acid had eaten through the solid bone. What

had happened to the skeleton during its four decades of silent entombment here Blake could

not imagine.

Before he realised it, he was looking at the stone again, and letting its curious influence call

up a nebulous pageantry in his mind. He saw processions of robed, hooded figures whose

outlines were not human, and looked on endless leagues of desert lined with carved, sky-

reaching monoliths. He saw towers and walls in nighted depths under the sea, and vortices of

space where wisps of black mist floated before thin shimmerings of cold purple haze. And

beyond all else he glimpsed an infinite gulf of darkness, where solid and semi-solid forms

were known only by their windy stirrings, and cloudy patterns of force seemed to superimpose

order on chaos and hold forth a key to all the paradoxes and arcana of the worlds we know.

Then all at once the spell was broken by an access of gnawing, indeterminate panic fear.

Blake choked and turned away from the stone, conscious of some formless alien presence

close to him and watching him with horrible intentness. He felt entangled with something—

something which was not in the stone, but which had looked through it at him—something

which would ceaselessly follow him with a cognition that was not physical sight. Plainly, the

place was getting on his nerves—as well it might in view of his gruesome find. The light was

waning, too, and since he had no illuminant with him he knew he would have to be leaving

soon.

It was then, in the gathering twilight, that he thought he saw a faint trace of luminosity in the

crazily angled stone. He had tried to look away from it, but some obscure compulsion drew

his eyes back. Was there a subtle phosphorescence of radio-activity about the thing? What

was it that the dead man‘s notes had said concerning a Shining Trapezohedron? What,

anyway, was this abandoned lair of cosmic evil? What had been done here, and what might

still be lurking in the bird-shunned shadows? It seemed now as if an elusive touch of foetor

had arisen somewhere close by, though its source was not apparent. Blake seized the cover

of the long-open box and snapped it down. It moved easily on its alien hinges, and closed

completely over the unmistakably glowing stone.

At the sharp click of that closing a soft stirring sound seemed to come from the steeple‘s

eternal blackness overhead, beyond the trap-door. Rats, without question—the only living

things to reveal their presence in this accursed pile since he had entered it. And yet that

stirring in the steeple frightened him horribly, so that he plunged almost wildly down the spiral

stairs, across the ghoulish nave, into the vaulted basement, out amidst the gathering dusk of

the deserted square, and down through the teeming, fear-haunted alleys and avenues of

Federal Hill toward the sane central streets and the home-like brick sidewalks of the college

district.

During the days which followed, Blake told no one of his expedition. Instead, he read much in

certain books, examined long years of newspaper files downtown, and worked feverishly at

the cryptogram in that leather volume from the cobwebbed vestry room. The cipher, he soon

saw, was no simple one; and after a long period of endeavour he felt sure that its language

could not be English, Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, Italian, or German. Evidently he would

have to draw upon the deepest wells of his strange erudition.

Every evening the old impulse to gaze westward returned, and he saw the black steeple as of

yore amongst the bristling roofs of a distant and half-fabulous world. But now it held a fresh

note of terror for him. He knew the heritage of evil lore it masked, and with the knowledge his

vision ran riot in queer new ways. The birds of spring were returning, and as he watched their

sunset flights he fancied they avoided the gaunt, lone spire as never before. When a flock of

them approached it, he thought, they would wheel and scatter in panic confusion—and he

could guess at the wild twitterings which failed to reach him across the intervening miles.

It was in June that Blake‘s diary told of his victory over the cryptogram. The text was, he

found, in the dark Aklo language used by certain cults of evil antiquity, and known to him in a

halting way through previous researches. The diary is strangely reticent about what Blake

deciphered, but he was patently awed and disconcerted by his results. There are references

to a Haunter of the Dark awaked by gazing into the Shining Trapezohedron, and insane

conjectures about the black gulfs of chaos from which it was called. The being is spoken of as

holding all knowledge, and demanding monstrous sacrifices. Some of Blake‘s entries shew

fear lest the thing, which he seemed to regard as summoned, stalk abroad; though he adds

that the street-lights form a bulwark which cannot be crossed.

Of the Shining Trapezohedron he speaks often, calling it a window on all time and space, and

tracing its history from the days it was fashioned on dark Yuggoth, before ever the Old Ones

brought it to earth. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoid things of

Antarctica, salvaged from their ruins by the serpent-men of Valusia, and peered at aeons later

in Lemuria by the first human beings. It crossed strange lands and stranger seas, and sank

with Atlantis before a Minoan fisher meshed it in his net and sold it to swarthy merchants from

nighted Khem. The Pharaoh Nephren-Ka built around it a temple with a windowless crypt, and

did that which caused his name to be stricken from all monuments and records. Then it slept

in the ruins of that evil fane which the priests and the new Pharaoh destroyed, till the delver‘s

spade once more brought it forth to curse mankind.

Early in July the newspapers oddly supplement Blake‘s entries, though in so brief and casual

a way that only the diary has called general attention to their contribution. It appears that a

new fear had been growing on Federal Hill since a stranger had entered the dreaded church.

The Italians whispered of unaccustomed stirrings and bumpings and scrapings in the dark

windowless steeple, and called on their priests to banish an entity which haunted their

dreams. Something, they said, was constantly watching at a door to see if it were dark

enough to venture forth. Press items mentioned the long-standing local superstitions, but

failed to shed much light on the earlier background of the horror. It was obvious that the

young reporters of today are no antiquarians. In writing of these things in his diary, Blake

expresses a curious kind of remorse, and talks of the duty of burying the Shining

Trapezohedron and of banishing what he had evoked by letting daylight into the hideous

jutting spire. At the same time, however, he displays the dangerous extent of his fascination,

and admits a morbid longing—pervading even his dreams—to visit the accursed tower and

gaze again into the cosmic secrets of the glowing stone.

Then something in the Journal on the morning of July 17 threw the diarist into a veritable

fever of horror. It was only a variant of the other half-humorous items about the Federal Hill

restlessness, but to Blake it was somehow very terrible indeed. In the night a thunderstorm

had put the city‘s lighting-system out of commission for a full hour, and in that black interval

the Italians had nearly gone mad with fright. Those living near the dreaded church had sworn

that the thing in the steeple had taken advantage of the street-lamps‘ absence and gone down

into the body of the church, flopping and bumping around in a viscous, altogether dreadful

way. Toward the last it had bumped up to the tower, where there were sounds of the

shattering of glass. It could go wherever the darkness reached, but light would always send it

fleeing.

When the current blazed on again there had been a shocking commotion in the tower, for

even the feeble light trickling through the grime-blackened, louver-boarded windows was too

much for the thing. It had bumped and slithered up into its tenebrous steeple just in time—for

a long dose of light would have sent it back into the abyss whence the crazy stranger had

called it. During the dark hour praying crowds had clustered round the church in the rain with

lighted candles and lamps somehow shielded with folded paper and umbrellas—a guard of

light to save the city from the nightmare that stalks in darkness. Once, those nearest the

church declared, the outer door had rattled hideously.

But even this was not the worst. That evening in the Bulletin Blake read of what the reporters

had found. Aroused at last to the whimsical news value of the scare, a pair of them had defied

the frantic crowds of Italians and crawled into the church through the cellar window after trying

the doors in vain. They found the dust of the vestibule and of the spectral nave ploughed up in

a singular way, with bits of rotted cushions and satin pew-linings scattered curiously around.

There was a bad odour everywhere, and here and there were bits of yellow stain and patches

of what looked like charring. Opening the door to the tower, and pausing a moment at the

suspicion of a scraping sound above, they found the narrow spiral stairs wiped roughly clean.

In the tower itself a similarly half-swept condition existed. They spoke of the heptagonal stone

pillar, the overturned Gothic chairs, and the bizarre plaster images; though strangely enough

the metal box and the old mutilated skeleton were not mentioned. What disturbed Blake the

most—except for the hints of stains and charring and bad odours—was the final detail that

explained the crashing glass. Every one of the tower‘s lancet windows was broken, and two of

them had been darkened in a crude and hurried way by the stuffing of satin pew-linings and

cushion-horsehair into the spaces between the slanting exterior louver-boards. More satin

fragments and bunches of horsehair lay scattered around the newly swept floor, as if

someone had been interrupted in the act of restoring the tower to the absolute blackness of

its tightly curtained days.

Yellowish stains and charred patches were found on the ladder to the windowless spire, but

when a reporter climbed up, opened the horizontally sliding trap-door, and shot a feeble

flashlight beam into the black and strangely foetid space, he saw nothing but darkness, and

an heterogeneous litter of shapeless fragments near the aperture. The verdict, of course, was

charlatanry. Somebody had played a joke on the superstitious hill-dwellers, or else some

fanatic had striven to bolster up their fears for their own supposed good. Or perhaps some of

the younger and more sophisticated dwellers had staged an elaborate hoax on the outside

world. There was an amusing aftermath when the police sent an officer to verify the reports.

Three men in succession found ways of evading the assignment, and the fourth went very

reluctantly and returned very soon without adding to the account given by the reporters.

From this point onward Blake‘s diary shews a mounting tide of insidious horror and nervous

apprehension. He upbraids himself for not doing something, and speculates wildly on the

consequences of another electrical breakdown. It has been verified that on three occasions—

during thunderstorms—he telephoned the electric light company in a frantic vein and asked

that desperate precautions against a lapse of power be taken. Now and then his entries shew

concern over the failure of the reporters to find the metal box and stone, and the strangely

marred old skeleton, when they explored the shadowy tower room. He assumed that these

things had been removed—whither, and by whom or what, he could only guess. But his worst

fears concerned himself, and the kind of unholy rapport he felt to exist between his mind and

that lurking horror in the distant steeple—that monstrous thing of night which his rashness

had called out of the ultimate black spaces. He seemed to feel a constant tugging at his will,

and callers of that period remember how he would sit abstractedly at his desk and stare out of

the west window at that far-off, spire-bristling mound beyond the swirling smoke of the city.

His entries dwell monotonously on certain terrible dreams, and of a strengthening of the

unholy rapport in his sleep. There is mention of a night when he awaked to find himself fully

dressed, outdoors, and headed automatically down College Hill toward the west. Again and

again he dwells on the fact that the thing in the steeple knows where to find him.

The week following July 30 is recalled as the time of Blake‘s partial breakdown. He did not

dress, and ordered all his food by telephone. Visitors remarked the cords he kept near his

bed, and he said that sleep-walking had forced him to bind his ankles every night with knots

which would probably hold or else waken him with the labour of untying.

In his diary he told of the hideous experience which had brought the collapse. After retiring on

the night of the 30th he had suddenly found himself groping about in an almost black space.

All he could see were short, faint, horizontal streaks of bluish light, but he could smell an

overpowering foetor and hear a curious jumble of soft, furtive sounds above him. Whenever

he moved he stumbled over something, and at each noise there would come a sort of

answering sound from above—a vague stirring, mixed with the cautious sliding of wood on

wood.

Once his groping hands encountered a pillar of stone with a vacant top, whilst later he found

himself clutching the rungs of a ladder built into the wall, and fumbling his uncertain way

upward toward some region of intenser stench where a hot, searing blast beat down against

him. Before his eyes a kaleidoscopic range of phantasmal images played, all of them

dissolving at intervals into the picture of a vast, unplumbed abyss of night wherein whirled

suns and worlds of an even profounder blackness. He thought of the ancient legends of

Ultimate Chaos, at whose centre sprawls the blind idiot god Azathoth, Lord of All Things,

encircled by his flopping horde of mindless and amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin

monotonous piping of a daemoniac flute held in nameless paws.

Then a sharp report from the outer world broke through his stupor and roused him to the

unutterable horror of his position. What it was, he never knew—perhaps it was some belated

peal from the fireworks heard all summer on Federal Hill as the dwellers hail their various

patron saints, or the saints of their native villages in Italy. In any event he shrieked aloud,

dropped frantically from the ladder, and stumbled blindly across the obstructed floor of the

almost lightless chamber that encompassed him.

He knew instantly where he was, and plunged recklessly down the narrow spiral staircase,

tripping and bruising himself at every turn. There was a nightmare flight through a vast

cobwebbed nave whose ghostly arches reached up to realms of leering shadow, a sightless

scramble through a littered basement, a climb to regions of air and street-lights outside, and a

mad racing down a spectral hill of gibbering gables, across a grim, silent city of tall black

towers, and up the steep eastward precipice to his own ancient door.

On regaining consciousness in the morning he found himself lying on his study floor fully

dressed. Dirt and cobwebs covered him, and every inch of his body seemed sore and

bruised. When he faced the mirror he saw that his hair was badly scorched, while a trace of

strange, evil odour seemed to cling to his upper outer clothing. It was then that his nerves

broke down. Thereafter, lounging exhaustedly about in a dressing-gown, he did little but stare

from his west window, shiver at the threat of thunder, and make wild entries in his diary.

The great storm broke just before midnight on August 8th. Lightning struck repeatedly in all

parts of the city, and two remarkable fireballs were reported. The rain was torrential, while a

constant fusillade of thunder brought sleeplessness to thousands. Blake was utterly frantic in

his fear for the lighting system, and tried to telephone the company around 1 a.m., though by

that time service had been temporarily cut off in the interest of safety. He recorded everything

in his diary—the large, nervous, and often undecipherable hieroglyphs telling their own story

of growing frenzy and despair, and of entries scrawled blindly in the dark.

He had to keep the house dark in order to see out the window, and it appears that most of his

time was spent at his desk, peering anxiously through the rain across the glistening miles of

downtown roofs at the constellation of distant lights marking Federal Hill. Now and then he

would fumblingly make an entry in his diary, so that detached phrases such as ―The lights

must not go‖; ―It knows where I am‖; ―I must destroy it‖; and ―It is calling to me, but perhaps it

means no injury this time‖; are found scattered down two of the pages.

Then the lights went out all over the city. It happened at 2:12 a.m. according to power-house

records, but Blake‘s diary gives no indication of the time. The entry is merely, ―Lights out—

God help me.‖ On Federal Hill there were watchers as anxious as he, and rain-soaked knots

of men paraded the square and alleys around the evil church with umbrella-shaded candles,

electric flashlights, oil lanterns, crucifixes, and obscure charms of the many sorts common to

southern Italy. They blessed each flash of lightning, and made cryptical signs of fear with their

right hands when a turn in the storm caused the flashes to lessen and finally to cease

altogether. A rising wind blew out most of the candles, so that the scene grew threateningly

dark. Someone roused Father Merluzzo of Spirito Santo Church, and he hastened to the

dismal square to pronounce whatever helpful syllables he could. Of the restless and curious

sounds in the blackened tower, there could be no doubt whatever.

For what happened at 2:35 we have the testimony of the priest, a young, intelligent, and well-

educated person; of Patrolman William J. Monahan of the Central Station, an officer of the

highest reliability who had paused at that part of his beat to inspect the crowd; and of most of

the seventy-eight men who had gathered around the church‘s high bank wall—especially

those in the square where the eastward facade was visible. Of course there was nothing

which can be proved as being outside the order of Nature. The possible causes of such an

event are many. No one can speak with certainty of the obscure chemical processes arising in

a vast, ancient, ill-aired, and long-deserted building of heterogeneous contents. Mephitic

vapours—spontaneous combustion—pressure of gases born of long decay—any one of

numberless phenomena might be responsible. And then, of course, the factor of conscious

charlatanry can by no means be excluded. The thing was really quite simple in itself, and

covered less than three minutes of actual time. Father Merluzzo, always a precise man,

looked at his watch repeatedly.

It started with a definite swelling of the dull fumbling sounds inside the black tower. There had

for some time been a vague exhalation of strange, evil odours from the church, and this had

now become emphatic and offensive. Then at last there was a sound of splintering wood, and

a large, heavy object crashed down in the yard beneath the frowning easterly facade. The

tower was invisible now that the candles would not burn, but as the object neared the ground

the people knew that it was the smoke-grimed louver-boarding of that tower‘s east window.

Immediately afterward an utterly unbearable foetor welled forth from the unseen heights,

choking and sickening the trembling watchers, and almost prostrating those in the square. At

the same time the air trembled with a vibration as of flapping wings, and a sudden east-

blowing wind more violent than any previous blast snatched off the hats and wrenched the

dripping umbrellas of the crowd. Nothing definite could be seen in the candleless night,

though some upward-looking spectators thought they glimpsed a great spreading blur of

denser blackness against the inky sky—something like a formless cloud of smoke that shot

with meteor-like speed toward the east.

That was all. The watchers were half numbed with fright, awe, and discomfort, and scarcely

knew what to do, or whether to do anything at all. Not knowing what had happened, they did

not relax their vigil; and a moment later they sent up a prayer as a sharp flash of belated

lightning, followed by an earsplitting crash of sound, rent the flooded heavens. Half an hour

later the rain stopped, and in fifteen minutes more the street-lights sprang on again, sending

the weary, bedraggled watchers relievedly back to their homes.

The next day‘s papers gave these matters minor mention in connexion with the general storm

reports. It seems that the great lightning flash and deafening explosion which followed the

Federal Hill occurrence were even more tremendous farther east, where a burst of the

singular foetor was likewise noticed. The phenomenon was most marked over College Hill,

where the crash awaked all the sleeping inhabitants and led to a bewildered round of

speculations. Of those who were already awake only a few saw the anomalous blaze of light

near the top of the hill, or noticed the inexplicable upward rush of air which almost stripped

the leaves from the trees and blasted the plants in the gardens. It was agreed that the lone,

sudden lightning-bolt must have struck somewhere in this neighbourhood, though no trace of

its striking could afterward be found. A youth in the Tau Omega fraternity house thought he

saw a grotesque and hideous mass of smoke in the air just as the preliminary flash burst, but

his observation has not been verified. All of the few observers, however, agree as to the

violent gust from the west and the flood of intolerable stench which preceded the belated

stroke; whilst evidence concerning the momentary burned odour after the stroke is equally

general.

These points were discussed very carefully because of their probable connexion with the

death of Robert Blake. Students in the Psi Delta house, whose upper rear windows looked

into Blake‘s study, noticed the blurred white face at the westward window on the morning of

the 9th, and wondered what was wrong with the expression. When they saw the same face in

the same position that evening, they felt worried, and watched for the lights to come up in his

apartment. Later they rang the bell of the darkened flat, and finally had a policeman force the

door.

The rigid body sat bolt upright at the desk by the window, and when the intruders saw the

glassy, bulging eyes, and the marks of stark, convulsive fright on the twisted features, they

turned away in sickened dismay. Shortly afterward the coroner‘s physician made an

examination, and despite the unbroken window reported electrical shock, or nervous tension

induced by electrical discharge, as the cause of death. The hideous expression he ignored

altogether, deeming it a not improbable result of the profound shock as experienced by a

person of such abnormal imagination and unbalanced emotions. He deduced these latter

qualities from the books, paintings, and manuscripts found in the apartment, and from the

blindly scrawled entries in the diary on the desk. Blake had prolonged his frenzied jottings to

the last, and the broken-pointed pencil was found clutched in his spasmodically contracted

right hand.

The entries after the failure of the lights were highly disjointed, and legible only in part. From

them certain investigators have drawn conclusions differing greatly from the materialistic

official verdict, but such speculations have little chance for belief among the conservative. The

case of these imaginative theorists has not been helped by the action of superstitious Dr.

Dexter, who threw the curious box and angled stone—an object certainly self-luminous as

seen in the black windowless steeple where it was found—into the deepest channel of

Narragansett Bay. Excessive imagination and neurotic unbalance on Blake‘s part, aggravated

by knowledge of the evil bygone cult whose startling traces he had uncovered, form the

dominant interpretation given those final frenzied jottings. These are the entries—or all that

can be made of them.

―Lights still out—must be five minutes now. Everything depends on lightning.

Yaddith grant it will keep up! . . . Some influence seems beating through it. . . . Rain

and thunder and wind deafen. . . . The thing is taking hold of my mind. . . .

―Trouble with memory. I see things I never knew before. Other worlds and other

galaxies . . . Dark . . . The lightning seems dark and the darkness seems light. . . .

―It cannot be the real hill and church that I see in the pitch-darkness. Must be

retinal impression left by flashes. Heaven grant the Italians are out with their

candles if the lightning stops!

―What am I afraid of? Is it not an avatar of Nyarlathotep, who in antique and

shadowy Khem even took the form of man? I remember Yuggoth, and more distant

Shaggai, and the ultimate void of the black planets. . . .

―The long, winging flight through the void . . . cannot cross the universe of light . . .

re-created by the thoughts caught in the Shining Trapezohedron . . . send it

through the horrible abysses of radiance. . . .

―My name is Blake—Robert Harrison Blake of 620 East Knapp Street, Milwaukee,

Wisconsin. . . . I am on this planet. . . .

―Azathoth have mercy!—the lightning no longer flashes—horrible—I can see

everything with a monstrous sense that is not sight—light is dark and dark is light .

. . those people on the hill . . . guard . . . candles and charms . . . their priests. . . .

―Sense of distance gone—far is near and near is far. No light—no glass—see that

steeple—that tower—window—can hear—Roderick Usher—am mad or going

mad—the thing is stirring and fumbling in the tower—I am it and it is I—I want to

get out . . . must get out and unify the forces. . . . It knows where I am. . . .

―I am Robert Blake, but I see the tower in the dark. There is a monstrous odour . . .

senses transfigured . . . boarding at that tower window cracking and giving way. . . .

Iä . . . ngai . . . ygg. . . .

―I see it—coming here—hell-wind—titan blur—black wings—Yog-Sothoth save

me—the three-lobed burning eye. . . .‖

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Fin